


The Devil's Due

by Meraki_S



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-09-26 20:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20396047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meraki_S/pseuds/Meraki_S
Summary: In the aftermath of a nearly disastrous encounter with a temporal anomaly, Reed welcomes a return to normalcy. However, past mistakes have a funny way of coming back to haunt you. An unpaid debt brings an old associate back into Reed's life, and the consequences may be farther-reaching than even he could have anticipated. Rated for violence/mature themes. Full warnings inside.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings throughout for language, torture, gore, mental illness, and other mature themes.
> 
> A/N: This is a sequel to The Anachron Incident. It should make some sense as a stand-alone, but it does reference events in TAI and reading that story first will definitely help you understand what's going on, especially in the first few chapters.

"Relax, Lieutenant," Doctor Phlox said with a benign smile at his antsy patient that suggested that he could, and would, take all the time in the world to perform a simple examination, should he see fit to do so. "I assure you, Captain Archer is fully aware that you are required to undergo weekly check-ups until otherwise notified. I'm sure he would not put a meeting before the health of his Tactical Officer."

"It's a senior staff meeting," Lieutenant Malcolm Reed pointed out impatiently. "I can't just be late to it."

"Indeed you can, Mr. Reed." The doctor almost smiled at Reed's appalled expression. "But I don't see any reason that you should be late unless you refuse to cooperate."

Reluctantly, Reed slid onto the edge of the biobed and rolled up the sleeve of his uniform for a blood draw. Phlox set the computer to analysing the blood sample while he ran a hand scanner over Reed.

"How are you feeling? Any pain, dizziness, or concussion symptoms since last week?"

"No. I told you, Doctor, I'm quite well. I don't need to be examined every week."

Phlox hummed softly. "Perhaps not, hm? But consider it a small price to pay to ease the mind of your Captain and Doctor." He smiled an unnerving Denobulan grin at Reed, who was far too used to it to be startled. Phlox seemed to take great joy in having the most stubborn of his patients in for required examinations every week, while Reed had come to view them as an unnecessary nuisance to be avoided when possible and disposed with quickly when avoidance was impossible. Hence his reason for scheduling this one so shortly before an important staff meeting.

"How about psychological symptoms? Have you experienced recurring nightmares, heightened anxiety, or anything else you found troublesome?"

"No," Reed said, slightly less truthfully. It was true that he had been having trouble sleeping since the incident with the mysterious Anachron species, but it had been less than six weeks. He supposed a little lingering disturbance was only natural. It was sure to wear off eventually. Certainly he hadn't been having anything that he would consider a psychological problem. He felt alright and was doing his job just fine, and those were the only metrics of psychological or physiological health that he needed.

Phlox turned to examine the computer screen, which displayed the results of the completed blood analysis. "You still have trace amounts of the Zytexian chemical compound in your body, though it appears to be breaking down quite nicely," he reported. He peered into the Lieutenant's eyes with a piercingly bright light that made Reed blink and squint uncomfortably. "Slight retinal scarring…it should heal on its own in a few months, but if not, a relatively simple surgery would clear that up." Phlox brightened visibly. "Or if you would prefer a less invasive option, I have recently acquired a Trellan Neuroscoptic Leech, which is known to…"

"No thank you," Reed said firmly, suppressing a shudder. Phlox looked disappointed, and Reed heard him mutter something about "close-mindedness to proven science" as he put his instruments away.

"Sleeves up," Phlox said as he came back, gesturing. "Let's have a look at those burns."

Reed pulled both sleeves up above the elbows, revealing uneven patches of dark, glossy scars on his forearms and wrists. He'd sustained severe burns from the scalding controls of a shuttlepod piloted too close to a star. He loathed the sight of the scars, but they would fade with time and his experiences of several weeks ago had taught him nothing if not patience. Phlox nodded approvingly.

"You've been using the burn gel I gave you?"

"Yes."

"These are healing well. I expect they will begin to fade soon, but they will probably always be visible unless you opt for cosmetic surgery to remove them."

"I know." Reed pulled his sleeves quickly back down to cover the scars. "May I go, Doctor?"

"If you have nothing else to discuss with me, then you are free to go," Phlox told him. Reed slid off the table and started for the door.

"Thank you, Doctor," he called curtly over his shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief that he still had five minutes to make it to the staff meeting. That should be plenty of time.

* * *

He was the last one in, but they hadn't gotten started yet. Reed slipped triumphantly into the last empty seat between Ensign Travis Mayweather and Commander Charles Tucker, returning Tucker's buoyant grin of greeting with a quick nod.

"Sorry I'm late, sir," he said in an undertone to the Captain. Technically he wasn't late, since the clock only now showed 0759, but this was late by his standards.

"Phlox?" Captain Jonathan Archer guessed. He knew his Tactical Officer well enough to realise that there was always a good excuse if he was running behind. "All well?" he asked, at Reed's nod.

"Yes sir. I'm perfectly alright, these examinations are entirely redundant –"

Archer shook his head minutely. "It's not me, Malcolm, it's Starfleet. I think you can understand their caution."

"But if Phlox said he didn't see the need…"

"I'm not going to tell him to say that," Archer said, a faint flicker of disapproval on his face. "You know better than that, Lieutenant."

"Sir," Reed said stiffly, feeling chastened. He sat back and listened inattentively as the briefing slid through its usual motions – reports from each department, simple enough though important. He had long since learned to sort through the relevant details without devoting his full attention to it, and he did so now. The reports, in essence, boiled down to the same thing; Ensign Hoshi Sato reported all normal, as did Mayweather and T'Pol, in the form of a detailed narrative of the mostly-insignificant scientific phenomena scanners had picked up…

"We've been having some trouble in Engineering," Tucker said, bringing Reed's wandering attention back in an instant. "Some unusual power drains. I've managed to track it down, and it turns out it's those phase cannon modifications. It shouldn't be to difficult to reroute our systems back to what they were before…"

"No," Reed said quickly, drawing surprised glances. "There's a chance there are other tachyon-powered ships of that species out there. We should leave the modifications as they are. We can run on reduced power if need be."

"I…suppose I could try to fix the modifications so they don't cause a power drain," Tucker suggested. "It'll take a little longer – I haven't drawn up a schematic for it, but I can probably figure something out."

"Get on it," Archer nodded approval. "Anything else from Engineering?"

"Nothing pressing. I've got a few updates Starfleet sent me to run by you, but it's nothing big. I'll get around to it after I've taken care of these modifications."

"Anything from your end, Malcolm?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. However, I'd like your permission to build another plutonium warhead to keep on standby."

"Do you think it's likely we'll run into another Anachron ship?" Archer asked sceptically.

"It's entirely possible," Reed said tersely. "We have no idea where the first one came from. For all we know, we could be heading straight into their territory."

Archer frowned. "Hold off on that for now," he said. "Let's take care of the problem in Engineering before we start working on another nuclear warhead, shall we?"

"But if we do run into –"

"I said hold off on that, Malcolm. I'd like you to work with Trip to make your modifications to the phase cannons permanent and eliminate the power drain."

Reed considered making the point that full efficiency in Engineering was hardly a priority if the ship was destroyed, but he held his tongue. The chances of running into another Anachron ship were extremely small, he knew, though he still would have felt more comfortable with a nuclear warhead or two on board. Still, he wasn't about to openly argue the Captain's order.

"Yes sir."

"Very well then. Dismissed. Malcolm, stay back a moment."

Archer waited until everyone else had left before turning back to Reed, who had risen to leave before being held back by Archer's summons. "I get the feeling you're not exactly pleased with this arrangement, Lieutenant."

"I'm…concerned about the security risk, sir," Reed admitted respectfully, uncomfortably conscious that his protests had bordered on the unprofessional. "I would hate to be unprepared if we ran into another Anachron ship."

"I understand," Archer assented. "But please remember that this is a ship of science, not war. One of our best defences is the fact that we are scientists exploring peacefully. That's a claim we can hardly make, to either the citizens of Earth or to an alien species, if we're carrying around a weapon powerful enough to wipe out a continent."

"I just don't want us to be defenceless, sir." Reed felt a surge of frustration at the idea that the Captain was willing to risk another temporal anomaly and the destruction of the Enterprise on a matter of politics. Didn't he see that idealism and politics were worth nothing if they were destroyed?

"And we won't be. That's why I asked Trip to find a way to make the phase cannon modifications permanent."

"That's hardly enough, sir," Reed objected, feeling himself once again treading a thin line of disrespect.

"Lieutenant," Archer said firmly, with the note of steel in his voice that meant he was not yet angry but was unwilling to negotiate further, "you are sorely mistaken if you believe I would put this ship in unnecessary danger. I have explained my reasoning to you, and unless the situation changes, my orders stand. I am not careless with my crew."

_My crew._ The words recalled a flash of memory – Archer's cloudy, dying eyes staring up, his last thought for the men and women he led – _My crew, Malcolm._

"With all due respect, sir," Reed said before he could stop himself, "you haven't seen what I have. You don't know what they're capable of. You didn't –" he checked himself abruptly, horrified, knowing he had crossed a line. Archer stared at him hard for a long moment.

"You have your orders, Lieutenant," he said at last. "You are dismissed."

Reed came to attention and left quickly, the Captain's eyes hard on his back as he left. All things considered, he had gotten off easy, though he felt slightly sick about the whole incident. He'd have to find a way to convince Archer to increase the ship's offensive capabilities. A few phase cannons might hold off an Anachron ship for a while, but they were a wholly inadequate protection. He rubbed his arms to ward off the chill of the air-conditioned turbolift and winced as the fabric scraped against the tender skin left on his arms by the deep burns.

Yes, something would have to be done. With a bit of careful design, perhaps he could come up with something equally effective that wouldn't appear as threatening on the scanners of an alien ship. If he circumvented the Captain's main argument against the warhead, Archer might be more likely to give his approval.

* * *

_"Tucker t' Malcolm."_

"Reed here," Reed replied, glancing up from his frustrating work over a skeleton schematic he'd begun drawing up for a high-yield warhead not powered by plutonium. It was maddening, because plutonium was clearly the simplest and most workable material he could use, but that was off-limits. He had toyed with the idea of using warp plasma, but that had theoretically been what caused the temporal anomaly in the first place. Using it as a weapon against the tachyon field with which it had interacted to start the time loop would be entirely counterproductive.

_"I've got a way to fix th' energy drain. Kin yew get inside that access tube and reconfigure the conduits while I redirect warp power fer a bit? I'll tell you what t' do."_

"That's not exactly my expertise," Reed pointed out warily. "Wouldn't one of your engineers be better off doing it?"

Tucker chuckled. _"They're yer phase cannons, Malcolm. It's nothin' too difficult if you've got a steady hand."_

"If you're sure," Reed said doubtfully. "Are you certain this will work? That was very fast."

_"Fast! Where've yew bin? It's been four hours."_

Four hours? Reed looked at the chronometer and saw with a shock that it was indeed past 1200. Had he been lost in his schematics for that long? Unsettled, he returned his attention to the comm unit. "What do I need?"

_"I'm sendin' you instructions now. Just download them to a PADD and bring it with you. Shouldn't require much more explanation, but I'll keep an open comm link just in case."_

"Very well." Reed scanned through the instructions Tucker sent him and gathered the equipment he would need. The procedure did indeed look simple, though he doubted it was as straightforward from Tucker's end.

The access tube was little-used, since it gave access only to two small power junctions, one from engineering and one to the phase cannons – hence the perfect place to splice together the power feeds. One end of the tube, which extended about five meters in both directions, gave access to these junctions, while the other was generally used for storage. Reed had not been in this particular tube since he had first modified the phase cannons with Tucker, back on that frantic and seemingly endless day when failure had meant destruction. It wasn't a welcoming memory. The back of Reed's neck prickled as he slid up into the warm, confined space. The bright spot his flashlight provided seemed small and insignificant.

_Why aren't these lighted?_ Reed wondered with aggravation. _It could be a security risk. Anything could stow away down here._ Never mind the fact that this was the heart of the ship, in the centre of the well-protected and well-staffed armoury – all the more reason to keep it entirely secure. They'd found all kinds of things out here – who knew what could get into the ship without their knowledge?

Near the end of the tube Reed settled himself by the access panel and activated his portable communications unit before removing the panel. It came off easily, and he squinted at his PADD. Its dim backlight made reading difficult. Reed felt sweat running down his back, though he'd only been in the oppressive atmosphere for a few minutes.

_"Tucker to Malcolm."_

The tinny crackle of Tucker's voice over the comm startled Reed, distracted as he'd been by the instructions on the PADD. His hand slipped as he opened his end of the link. "Reed here."

_"We're ready to go at this end. You ready?"_

"Just a moment." Reed scanned through the PADD, checking to be sure he knew what he was doing. The procedure Tucker had outlined was simple, a slight variation of work he'd done a hundred times before. He activated his hypospanner and pinned the flashlight between his knees to give himself light to work by.

_There's somethin' in here._

Reed flinched. The flashlight dropped and he narrowly avoided slicing his hand open on the thin, knife-like laser of the hypospanner. "What?"

_"What?"_

"Did you say something?"

_"Nope. Why?"_

"Never mind." Reed retrieved the flashlight and repositioned it. "Go ahead, Trip."

He concentrated firmly on the work in front of him, though the heat and stuffiness of the air were distracting. The job was not difficult, merely tedious, but with a live hypospanner it was always best to be fully alert.

_It's hunting me!_

He recognized the words this time for what they were – a memory of the last time he'd been in here. Tucker, under the influence of a bizarre alien drug, had hallucinated an unknown being stalking him in the dark. Reed brushed the memory away impatiently, though he noticed that his pulse was elevated. Ridiculous. It was just a memory, and it hadn't even been real back then. He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder.

_Behind yew…_

In his mind's eye, Reed saw Tucker's petrified expression. A cold shock of adrenaline jerked through him and before he thought about what he was doing he had snatched up the flashlight and aimed it down into the darkness at the far end of the tube, which was punctuated only by a dim circle of light from the hatch. The bulkhead gleamed back at him, as white as bone. The tube was empty. Of course it was.

_Get it together, Lieutenant_, he chided himself angrily. Jumping at shadows like a child afraid of the dark – chief of security, indeed. Furious at his own irrationality, he applied himself to finishing the job as quickly as possible. The hot, fetid air was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.

He finished welding the reconnected junctions and sat back, examining his work critically. A small lump of metal drooped unevenly from one of the welded areas, and he frowned with dissatisfaction at the inconsistency. Picking up the hypospanner again, he began carefully shaving the unevenness away.

_"Looks like that's it,"_ Tucker said cheerfully over the comm. The unexpected voice made Reed jump and the hypospanner slipped in his clammy hand. The thin red beam cut into the flesh of his hand between his thumb and forefinger with laser precision.

"God dammit!" Reed nearly dropped the hypospanner, but knew better. He switched it off and cupped his other hand over the deep, bloody wound. "Bloody hell!"

_"What is it? Everything okay?"_

"Yes. Fine," Reed gritted, wincing at the injury as he examined it in the light. It was more painful than dangerous, but for a cut this deep he'd definitely need medical attention.

_"What happened?"_

"Nothing." It was an amateur mistake. He'd been careless and had paid the price. "My hand slipped. It's nothing."

_"Are you hurt?"_

"Barely. I'm fine." Tucking the comm unit gingerly under his arm, mindful not to get blood on it, he started carefully back down the tunnel. He'd have to come back for his tools later. It wasn't like him to leave things lying around, but he had little choice in the matter.

_"You didn't cut yourself on the hypospanner, did you?"_

"Just a touch. It's fine."

_"Those things bleed like hell, Malcolm. Yer goin' to Sickbay. I'll order yew if y' make me."_

"No need, I'm going." Reed climbed awkwardly down from the tube into the startled gaze of Ensign Tanner.

"Sir, are you alright?"

"Just a nick, Ensign. I'll be back in a few minutes. See if Commander Tucker needs anything further."

As he made his way towards Sickbay for the second tome that day, Reed told himself that the shakiness was just from his injury. Adrenaline. Pain did that to you.

* * *

Reed sat on the same biobed he'd occupied that morning, feeling unreasonable sulky. It was his own damn fault he was in here again, but he would have liked to be able to blame it on Phlox. At least then he could tell himself that this was unavoidable. The towel that Phlox had given him to stem the bleeding was soaked with blotches of red. Reed grimaced at the sight.

"How did this happen?" Phlox asked in a business-like manner, bustling back over with a hand scanner and a hypospray that numbed Reed's hand and wrist when the doctor injected it into the uninjured side of his palm.

"Hypospanner," Reed explained laconically, allowing himself to relax minutely with the relief from the pain.

"Mr. Reed, you're quite aware of the necessity for care when using a hypospanner," Phlox chided. "It's far easier than you think to permanently harm yourself with one."

"So I see," Reed said wryly. "I trust I'm not permanently damaged, Doctor?"

"Let's have a look, shall we?"

Phlox dampened a fresh towel and wiped the blood from Reed's numbed hand. Slightly less obscured, the injury looked almost worse. The laser had cut into the side of his hand by the base of his thumb and sliced completely through his hand to a depth of about an inch and a half between his thumb and forefinger. Phlox skimmed the scanner over the afflicted hand.

"No sign of bone damage, but you've done quite a job here," he said cheerfully. "You'll be on partial duties for the next twenty-four hours."

"Partial duties!" Reed protested. "Doctor, it's just a cut!"

"Regenerators don't work magic, you know. You'll need at least two more treatments. Be back here at 0630 tomorrow."

"Just my luck," Reed muttered.

"If you don't mind my asking, how did this happen?" Phlox asked mildly. "Forgive me, Lieutenant, but you're hardly a careless man."

Reed hesitated. The tunnel had been hot, dark, cramped, filled to overflowing with sickening memories. It had been –

"Just a mistake. I got distracted."

* * *

"How's the hand?"

Reed looked up from the PADD he'd been poring over to find Tucker standing by his table. "Hm? Oh, it's fine." The offending appendage was bandaged, but it had stopped bleeding and the anaesthetic Phlox had given him had yet to wear off.

"What happened, anyway?"

Reed felt a flash of irritation. He wished people would stop asking that. "Careless error," he said testily.

"Careless? You?"

Reed shook his head, unwilling to pursue the line of communication further. Tucker sighed but gave it up.

"What are you working on?"

Reed pushed the PADD over to Tucker and sat back, sipping at his cold tea. He'd spent the past half-hour staring at the schematics he'd designed earlier without making any modifications. The problem, of course, was how to fuel the weapon's explosion without plutonium. There was little on the ship that was as powerful as the isotope, or as comparatively easy to work with.

"What is this?" Tucker asked. "How is this powered?"

"That's the problem," Reed explained. "I need something other than plutonium. Something that won't be as obvious if we were scanned."

"But what for?"

"What for?" Reed echoed incredulously. "For protection."

"Yew could still use plutonium," Tucker said absently. "You'd just need to shield it so it can't be detected." Reed's comment registered then, and he looked up, frowning. "Yer not thinkin' of making this, are you?"

"It's not much good as an idea on a PADD, is it?"

"But the Cap'n said –"

"I know what the Captain said," Reed assured Tucker. "But he also said his primary concern was the Enterprise looking too much like a warship to alien scanners. If I can hide it from scanners…"

"Look," Tucker said, disturbed, "I know you want to be sure we're protected in case we run into another Anachron ship, but you've got to admit it's pretty unlikely. We're running constant long- and close-range scans for elevated levels of Cherenkov radiation. They couldn't get within a light year without us knowing."

"You can't be sure of that," Reed said. Tucker didn't understand the threat, which was endlessly frustrating. He was the one person who should have understood better than anyone else. Reed retrieved the PADD and stood. "Don't worry, I'm not going to make it against the Captain's orders."

* * *

Reed's room was dark when he entered, feeling worn and weary. This day had been far too long. He switched on the lights and wandered over to his computer, absently flicking the display screen on to check for messages.

_"Lieutenant Reed. It's been a while."_

Reed went very still, instinct kicking into high gear and prompting him _don't react._

From the computer screen, Harris's nondescript face stared enigmatically back at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If I owned the content in this story it would not be free on the internet.

"What do you want?" Reed asked guardedly, all his senses tingling on high alert. It had indeed been a while since he'd seen Harris – not since that dark night on the San Francisco street where his former employer had given him information about Terra Prime per Archer's request and wished him luck. Reed felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. He should have known he would see Harris again. The man wasn't one to let a debt go unpaid, and Reed was in his debt.

_"You,"_ Harris said bluntly. He also wasn't one to beat around the bush, unless it was to his advantage to do so. _"The Section needs you back, Lieutenant."_

"No," Reed said. "I left your Section a long time ago. I told you not to come after me."

_"Ah, but you came back yourself,"_ Harris said. _"You came back because you needed a favour, and I granted you that request. Surely you haven't forgotten what it means to owe a debt to the Section?"_

He hadn't forgotten.

"And before that you asked me for something, and I gave it to you," Reed growled.

_"Because you owed it to me then. And now we find ourselves in the same position. You are in my debt, and I intend to make good on that. You know what happens if you refuse to pay what you owe to the Section."_

He did know. Reed's hands were clammy, and he seethed inwardly with helpless rage.

"What do you want." His voice was flat – a command, not a question. The briefest of smirks crept across Harris's lined face.

_"I knew you would come around, Lieutenant. You've always been a sensible man. But you know how this works – you'll find out soon enough what we want."_ The smug tone dropped out of his voice as he became more business-like._ "At approximately 0600 tomorrow morning, your ship's scanners will detect a Minshara-class planet in orbit around a yellow main-sequence star similar to Earth's sun. The planet appears to be uninhabited, though there are traces of unidentifiable minerals on its surface which your Science Officer will believe could be undiscovered elements. Your Captain will authorize an away mission to explore the planet's surface. You will express an interest in this particular away mission. Your shuttle will land at the location of the highest mineral concentrations. You will find a reason to become slightly separated from the group, at which point you will be kidnapped by an apparent indigenous species which your ship's scanners did not detect. That is all you need to know for the moment."_

"Captain Archer will come after me."

_"Captain Archer will not find you."_

"He'll search the whole bloody planet if he must," Reed said with feeling.

_"Let him search,"_ Harris said dismissively.

"He won't stop until he finds me."

_"He will find you. He will find you dead."_ Harris looked grimly at him. _"You forget, Lieutenant, that we possess your genetic material. Perhaps you have heard of the Lyssarian Desert Larvae?"_

Of course he had. It was the juvenile form of a unique creature which remained dormant until exposed to the genetic material of another animal, at which point it developed into a mimetic simbiot – an exact clone of the genetic material it was exposed to. Depending on the complexity of the animal it became, the simbiot had a lifespan of between seven days and two years – for a being as complex as a human, it would live about two weeks. But while it lived, it would be identical to him in every way. It would look like him, think like him, feel like him. And then Harris would kill it, when it was exactly at the stage of physical development that corresponded to Reed's own age. No one was to know the difference.

"Damn you," Reed spat. "That's murder. How dare you –"

_"Don't misunderstand me, Lieutenant. The simbiot's body is already in stasis and being transported to the planet as we speak."_

Speechless, Reed could only glare at the man staring mildly back at him across light-years of space. _"You need not worry,"_ Harris added. _"You can return to your ship afterward, if you so desire. We have ways of explaining this to Starfleet, and you can be sure your Captain will not be sorry to have you back."_

"Bastard," Reed hissed furiously. Harris raised an ironic eyebrow at him.

_"Temper, temper, Lieutenant! You have been gone a while, haven't you."_ It was a reminder, and a warning. In the Section, emotion was a weakness, and he didn't have room for such a weakness. Especially not now. _"If you're concerned about your family's reaction, we have ways to prevent them from finding out about your supposed death. Of course, you might always prefer them to think you met your demise in heroic protection of your crew."_

He was being baited. Reed refused to rise to it. "Do what you want. It doesn't seem I have much of a choice in this."

_"You don't,"_ Harris said bluntly. He glanced at something Reed couldn't see in the camera's narrow range. _"You know what to do. Be sure this communique is completely deleted. Don't leave any chance for it to be reconstructed."_

The screen went dark. Automatically, Reed ran through the motions of deleting the communication and all traces that it left. When all records had been wiped, he sat staring at the dark screen for a long time, feeling numb. He'd been so convinced that he was out of the Section for good, with no loyalties left except to Starfleet, the Enterprise, and most of all Captain Archer. Bitter irony welled within him. He should have known better.

* * *

"I'd like to accompany the away team, Captain," Reed offered, keeping his face carefully bland and his voice mildly interested. It was alarmingly easy to slip into a façade of innocent normality. Just how close did other aspects of his Section training linger under the surface? The thought was disturbing.

"Aren't you on partial duties?" Archer asked. Reed stiffened at the reminder of his embarrassing mishap with the hypospanner.

"I cut my hand, Captain, it's hardly a debilitating injury."

"I doubt we'll need much security at any rate," Archer said. "This planet is uninhabited, as far as we can tell."

"Better safe than sorry," Reed pointed out reasonably. "Besides, if Sub-Commander T'Pol has detected new elements, they may have security applications. I'd like to go, Captain."

Archer smiled indulgently. "Very well. You, Trip, T'Pol, Crewman Alex, and Crewman Novakovich. Is that a team you can work with, T'Pol?" he asked, turning to the Science Officer. T'Pol raised an eyebrow slightly, as if to suggest that any team was one she could work with.

"Indeed. Captain, I suggest we begin this mission sooner rather than later. My scans of the region indicate a likelihood of inclement weather during the afternoons."

"Very well," Archer nodded his agreement. "Permission granted, Sub-Commander."

Reed followed T'Pol off the bridge with an icy feeling of dread in his stomach. He wondered when he would see the bridge again – see the Captain again. He felt like a deserter. Knowing the Section, and Harris, as he did, Reed was fully aware that the chances were not terribly high that he would ever see the inside of this ship again.

"Coming for a walk planetside?" Tucker greeted him cheerfully as the five-member away team entered the shuttlebay.

"Something like that," Reed said. "I'm interested in these minerals T'Pol picked up. You say they may be unknown elements, Sub-Commander? Were you able to determine anything about their properties?"

"They appear to share characteristics of both alkali and transition metals," T'Pol began, "though their density is unexpectedly low. It is possible that these could be compounds of known metals that have not been discovered in nature yet, but due to the resonance scan I performed, it is more likely that…"

The attention safely distracted from himself, Reed settled back in his seat in the shuttlepod and listened to the scientific conversation between Tucker and T'Pol as it ranged from the specific properties these elements displayed, to methods of extracting the elements from the planet's crust without causing destabilization, to Tucker's speculations on possible uses for the substances. For his part, Reed feigned interest. Under ordinary circumstances he would, in fact, have found this discovery quite interesting. However, there was little chance he would get to examine or appreciate the minerals.

He felt like a condemned prisoner walking to his execution. He wanted to appeal to the Captain, to T'Pol, to Tucker, to warn them about what was about to happen, to plead with them to help him._ I don't want to go._ But he had no choice. He was in Harris's debt, even if he had asked the man for a favour on Archer's orders._ Did you know what you were doing, Captain? Did you know they would come back for me?_

"You alright, Malcolm?" Tucker asked. Reed realised that he had been staring straight ahead without speaking for some time now, lost in thought. He nodded, and offered a smile that felt tight, though Tucker's answering grin was proof enough that it looked genuine.

"Fine."

It didn't matter, though, what he wanted. There was no way out of this, not this time. Harris and the Section had a hold on him, had it and would always have it, an undeniable hold that he could not escape or run from. He'd known that since he first began work for the Section all those years ago. There was an unspoken code in the Section, and that was as much a part of him as his own bloodline. He could deny it for a time, or ignore it, or fight it, but in the end he could not be rid of it. Not now, and not ever.

They had come back for him, and he accepted that fact. He didn't have to like it. He just had to survive it, if he ever wanted to see his ship, his crew, again.

He felt himself sliding back into the mind-set he'd developed during his time under Harris: one of heightened awareness, allowing his senses to feed directly to instinct; one of hardened indifference, a shell of protection from the unwanted thoughts, desires, and emotions that could distract an agent just long enough to prove fatal. He had a feeling that if he wanted to survive whatever Harris was about to throw at him – or throw him at – he'd need all the training he'd ever gone through.

* * *

Shuttlepod Two landed softly in a small expanse of long yellow-green grass encircled by wide-leaved greed trees on three sides, and a shallowly sloping outcrop of rock on the fourth. The air smelled sweetly pungent with the scent of alien vegetation and rot as the away team disembarked. Tucker breathed in the moist but not oppressive air as if he'd never experienced anything quite so pleasant. He shuffled his feet through the long, smooth grass.

"Feels good to be on solid ground again."

"The deck of the Enterprise is made of duranium alloy, Commander," T'Pol pointed out. "I assure you, it is quite solid." Reed thought he detected a note of wry amusement in her voice. Perhaps she too felt relaxed by the warm, balmy atmosphere. Then again, perhaps not.

"Scans indicate the highest concentration of mineral deposits in that direction," Crewman Novakovich reported, indicating the rocky outcropping. T'Pol nodded confirmation as she examined her own hand scanner.

"Lead the way, Crewman," Tucker said buoyantly.

Reed trailed slightly behind as they walked toward the rocks, but Crewman Alex trudged along beside him. Reed noticed that the Crewman kept his hand near the phase pistol at his belt.

"Something wrong, Crewman?"

"Ah – no sir." Alex glanced to see that the other three were not close enough to hear before lowering his voice. "Sir, this planet is uninhabited, isn't it?"

"That's what the scans showed," Reed answered calmly. "Why?"

"No reason, sir, really. It's just – it's probably nothing."

"What's probably nothing?"

Alex fidgeted awkwardly. "Just a feeling, sir. Since we landed…I've just had a feeling that there's something not quite right here."

Reed increased his pace slightly, gradually closing the gap between the two groups. "Want to explain that, Crewman?"

"I don't know that I can, sir," Alex said unhappily. "Like I said, sir, it's probably nothing."

"Hm." Ordinarily, Reed encouraged his men to pay attention to their instincts but not to act on them without proof. In this case, however, he knew Alex was exactly right, though there was no danger to the other members of the party. There should be no danger to them. He was impressed by Alex's intuition. He felt it too, though he'd assumed that was due to the fact that he already knew what was amiss. Their surroundings were eerily silent. Scans had showed that the planet was heavily populated with small life forms similar to Earth birds and insects, but there was no sound of these. Apart from the light breeze that ruffled Reed's hair, the planet seemed to be holding its breath. Reed glanced up at the sky, blue above them but heavy with far-off clouds near the horizon. "Perhaps it's the weather," he remarked. "Sub-Commander T'Pol did say there would be heavy storms in the afternoon."

"Perhaps that's it, sir," Alex agreed. He didn't sound convinced.

"At any rate, we might as well be careful," Reed said, seeing his opportunity. "Stay near the others, but not too close. Take the left side, I'll go right. I wouldn't worry too much, though," he added. "Sub-Commander T'Pol scanned the planet carefully."

Alex nodded, reassured, and the two separated, speeding up to catch up with the others. Reed kept a distance of about ten metres between himself and the group as they neared the rocks. The Section wouldn't need much chance, he knew, but he did need to give them that chance.

As Tucker, T'Pol, and Novakovich reached the rocks, Reed skirted to the side along the base of the outcropping, following it some distance to the side before starting up it. He allowed his proximity to the group to widen to some thirty metres. They would be close, he knew, though he couldn't see or hear them. He was impressed – but maybe it was only that his senses had dulled in his time away from the Section.

Reed felt a sharp, sudden prick in the back of his neck like an insect's sting. He clapped his hand to the spot and pulled it away with a spot of blood and a short, sharp splinter of wood in his palm. He dropped the splinter to the ground, shaking his head. Tranquilizing him? Really? Surely they knew he would cooperate. Then again, perhaps the splinter carried no chemical substances and was simply a way of getting his attention, warning him to be on the alert. Reed rubbed his neck again and started up the rocks at a slower pace, careful to avoid steep or slippery areas, in case he had been sedated.

"Come on, Malcolm," Tucker called from near the top of the rocks. When had he gotten so far ahead? Reed didn't realise he'd been moving so slowly. He smiled softly. Now that it had begun, his anxiety had gone. He had been tranquilized, he knew. He could feel it now: the spreading tingle on the back of his neck, the heaviness on his limbs, the numbness in his fingers and face. He started forward again, but his movements were sluggish and wobbly.

"Malcolm? What's wrong?" Tucker's voice sounded a long way off. With effort, Reed raised his head to look up at him. It would probably be the last he saw of his friend for a long time. Concerned, Tucker started toward him.

Through his fading senses, Reed heard a sudden commotion behind him and turned to see four or five humanoid figures surging towards him. They were coming for him. But what strange agents, or how good their disguises! Long-haired, dirty and ragged, ridged faces blank and devoid of full intelligence – so this was the "indigenous race" Harris had spoken of. Reed had to admit it was convincing.

His legs gave out and Reed crumpled to the ground, his eyes sliding closed against his will. The last thing he heard was Tucker screaming "Malcolm!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Yes, I have suddenly acquired all rights to Star Trek since posting my last chapter. Or I'm being sarcastic. It's one of the two.

"Yew said the planet was uninhabited!" Tucker said accusingly, glaring across the table of Archer's briefing room at T'Pol.

"That is what sensors indicated," the Vulcan said calmly. "It appears that these life forms were not detected by our scanners. I am running an analysis to determine why."

"Not detected? You don't say," Tucker grumbled, already feeling guilty for his harshness to her. It wasn't her fault, after all, and he wasn't really angry with her. He was worried sick and furious with himself, just looking for someone else to blame it on. He should have been more careful, should have kept Reed closer to the group instead of letting him wander off.

"Cool it, Trip," Archer said warningly, though the engineer had already subsided into sullen silence. "We're going to get him back. T'Pol, have you been able to detect Malcolm's biosign?"

"I have not, Captain," T'Pol admitted reluctantly. "However, it is possible that whatever prevented me from detecting the planet's indigenous inhabitants is also preventing me from locating Lieutenant Reed."

_Or he could be dead,_ Tucker tried not to think.

The door slid open to admit Doctor Phlox. Archer rose to his feet expectantly. "What news, Doctor? How is Crewman Novakovich?"

"I see no cause for concern," Phlox said. He held out a small glass container to Archer. Through its transparent sides, Tucker could see a small, sharply pointed piece of wood. "I discovered this in Crewman Novakovich's neck. It is covered with a powerful plant-based sedative." He paused. "An interesting side effect is that I am currently unable to detect Crewman Novakovich's biosign. I can obtain medical readings with a hand scanner at close range, but my imaging chamber reports that he is deceased when, clearly, he is not."

Tucker felt warm relief wash over him. "So that's why we can't pick up Malcolm's biosign, Doctor?"

"It is quite possible," Phlox said optimistically. He turned to T'Pol. "I believe this may also explain your inability to detect the indigenous life forms on this planet. If the plant that secretes this chemical forms a part of their diet, or if they consume animals that eat this plant, their bodies would contain trace amounts of the substance, making them impossible to detect. They could have built up an immunity to the substance's sedative properties, or it could be simply ineffective when ingested rather than injected."

"How long until this substance wears off?" Archer asked. Tucker could see where the captain was going.

"Difficult to say, Captain," Phlox admitted. "I've synthesised an antidote to counteract its effects, but I am still unable to detect Crewman Novakovich's biosign." Archer nodded and turned to T'Pol.

"T'Pol, I'd like you to start working on the scanners. See if you can configure them to work around this. In the meantime, Trip, I want you to take a security team down to the surface to search for Malcolm. Have the doctor inoculate you with his antidote before you go."

"Yessir," Tucker said grimly. "We'll find him, Cap'n."

* * *

Hazy awareness returned slowly, and it was a long time before Reed could distinguish between reality and the chaotic, confused dreams of a drugged sleep. He heard deep voices speaking in a rough, broken language that he vaguely recognised, though he couldn't place it, and felt the low vibrations of a ship's engines around him. When he opened his eyes his vision was blurry and gave him only an indistinct view of a dark room dimly lit with a reddish glow. He tried to sit up, only to realise that his hands and chest had been bound to the surface he was on with thick bands of an inflexible material. He couldn't feel his legs. This was far less disconcerting than it should have been. He was still heavily drugged, and couldn't quite bring himself to struggle against his bonds.

Footsteps approached, and a dark shape he couldn't make out leaned over him. Fingers pried his eye wide open and a bright light pierced burned into Reed's retina, making his eyes water.

"He'll be waking up," one of the deep voices grunted, speaking English. "Drug him again. Knock him out, just don't kill him. Harris wants him alive."

Another voice replied in the alien language. Reed felt the sharp prick of a needle in the side of his neck, and his eyes slid closed again. Just before awareness left him, his drugged mind supplied a name for the unaccountably familiar language: Klingon. He had no time to process the implications of this before blackness surrounded him again and pulled him back into the ethereal world of dreams.

* * *

Back on the planet's surface, Tucker saw that the balmy atmosphere of earlier had entirely changed. The storms of the afternoon had given way to a cool, damp early evening, but the calm was deceptive. The search party kept silent and close together as they followed their scanners to the place where Reed had been abducted.

"I've got a biosign," Crewman Alex said in an undertone, indicating his scanner. Carefully, followed by Tucker and four armed MACOs, he started forward into the trees. Under the canopy of vegetation, all was dim and quiet except for the flat plop of water droplets dripping onto wide leaves. Their feet made little sound in the long grass, which was flattened into a drenched mat by the rain. Although the temperature was mild, the humidity was oppressive. Tucker's breathing sounded loud and close in his own ears, and when Alex stopped and spoke in a low voice, it might as well have been a shout.

"Lost it," he said, frustrated. Tucker stepped forward with his own scanner, to no result.

"Dammit," he muttered softly.

"Over here, sir," one of the MACOs said. Tucker turned to find the man examining a patch of ground where the matted grass had been disturbed. "Something was here. There's a trail."

Tucker couldn't see the trail himself, beyond the tousled grass, but the MACO, Corporal Ryan, pointed out a broken stem here, a torn-up tuft of grass there. His scanner and Alex's still picked up nothing, but what else was there to go on? Tucker followed the two men through the dense undergrowth. The rest of the away team followed closely.

Ryan stopped suddenly and knelt, examining something on the ground. "Sir," he said softly, beckoning. Tucker hurried over to see the grass coated with something dark and wet. He bent to touch it, and his hand came away sticky and red.

"It's human," Alex confirmed, sending a shot of anxiety through Tucker. There was a lot of blood here – perhaps not a fatal amount, but far too much for comfort. "Sir, I'm getting something –"

"A biosign?" Tucker asked quickly.

Alex hesitated just too long. "I – I can't tell, sir. It could be. It's close."

* * *

"How are those sensors coming?"

"Nothing yet, Captain," T'Pol answered patiently, for the sixth time. Archer gripped the armrests of the Captain's chair, resisting the urge to pressure the Vulcan to work faster. His urgency was of no utility to her. As unconcerned as she seemed, Archer knew that she was working as efficiently and quickly as any of his crew could, and probably more so. He took a steadying breath and wondered at his own anxiety. This was not the first time someone in his crew had gone missing, and although he was always worried, this time felt different. He was having difficulty concentrating. Already he had to resist the childish urge to ask T'Pol again if she had made any progress. Archer worried that his disquiet would rub off on the rest of the bridge crew. With a conscious effort of will, he forced himself to relax.

"Sir, we're being hailed." Sato's voice broke his thoughts, bringing the tension rushing back. "It's Trip. Audio only."

"Patch it through," Archer said sharply.

"Aye, sir."

"Trip?" Archer asked, when Sato's nod told him the channel was open. "Did you find him? Report."

"_I – yes, sir_." Tucker's tone was oddly flat. Archer's skin crawled unpleasantly. "_Captain_ –" there was the slightest of breaks in his voice, just enough to tell Archer the truth before Tucker spoke the words. "_Malcolm's dead_."

* * *

When Reed woke for the second time, it was more fully. He could still feel the sedative lurking at the edges of his consciousness, dulling his senses, but only faintly. He stared up into the red glow surrounding him and made out a dark ceiling far above.

"Lieutenant Reed, glad to see you've finally re-joined us." Harris's voice spoke from beside him. Reed turned his head to see the man sitting cross-legged in a chair beside him. Slowly, Reed tested the boundaries by shifting his hands, and he was surprised to find he was no longer bound. He sat up shakily and looked around.

"Ah, yes," Harris said. "I'm afraid my Klingon colleagues were somewhat crude, if effective, in their methods. I asked them to remove the restraints. No need for such things." There was a hint of distaste in his voice, as if the thought that Reed might have to be _compelled_ to cooperate was absurd.

"Klingons?" Reed's voice was a bit slurred, but the full impact of this realisation hit him like a sledgehammer. "You're working with the Klingons?"

"Come now," Harris said reprovingly, with a slight frown. "We have ties with everyone. You know how we operate."

"Trust no one, know everyone," Reed said. "Yes, I remember. But the Klingons are enemies of the Coalition."

Harris's face was difficult to make out in the darkness. "All the more important that we have ties to them, then."

There was logic in that, Reed had to admit, though he hated it. What must Harris have done to forge this alliance? The thought almost made him shudder.

"I'm no traitor, Lieutenant, whatever you may think of me," Harris said, as if he'd read Reed's thoughts. "There are much worse threats to the Coalition than the Klingons. _You_ had the peculiar fortune to encounter one of those worse things recently. That is why you are here now."

Reed didn't need to think hard to understand what Harris meant. "The Anachron ship."

"Exactly," Harris said. "You may find this hard to believe, but I didn't want to pull you back in. I intended to let you go after the last time we met. But you've become valuable to me again. You have information, you have experience, and more importantly…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "But we'll talk about that later. For now you know enough about why I brought you back. This Anachron species you were fortunate to discover is one of the greatest dangers the Section has ever encountered. However, Starfleet Command does not agree. We must handle this matter discreetly."

"I don't know that I was fortunate," Reed said darkly.

"On the contrary, Lieutenant, I believe you were extremely lucky," Harris said, and Reed lacked the desire to continue the debate any further.

"Where are we now?" he asked. He looked around the dim room for a clue, but there were no star charts visible on any of the computer monitors.

"That is not important," Harris said. "You are exactly where I need you to be right now."

That was one of the most unhelpful answers Reed had ever gotten. "What about the Enterprise? Tri – Commander Tucker and the away team? You didn't hurt them, I suppose?"

"No reason for concern, Lieutenant. We darted your Crewman Novakovich so it wouldn't look suspicious, but he will recover quite well under your doctor's care. No one else was touched, though I expect they will be saddened by the death of their Tactical Officer." He checked the chronometer on his wrist. "Yes, they should have found your simbiot by now."

Reed felt a flash of pure hatred for the man sitting in front of him, calmly talking about how the people Reed cared about would be grieving and in pain over his apparent loss. Harris frowned, apparently seeing the displeasure in Reed's expression.

"Lieutenant, perhaps you think I'm being callous. I assure you that I don't do this because I enjoy it. I have taken only the measures necessary to accomplish what I must. This Section is one of the greatest forces at work in the known universe, and our purpose is to protect mankind. That includes your ship and her crew. Do you think they won't be affected by what we – by what _you_ – do here? On the contrary, you will be helping to protect them and what they stand for."

"How idealistic," Reed said cynically, but his anger faded against his will.

"That's the attitude I remember," Harris said approvingly. He stood up. "You might as well get some more rest," he suggested. "We'll be at our destination in a few hours, and I daresay you'll need all the rest you can get."

"And where exactly is our destination?" Reed asked as Harris made to leave. The older man smiled faintly at him.

"Where it always is, of course. It is exactly where we are going."

* * *

Although Phlox had advised against it, Archer felt a strange compulsion to see the corpse that Tucker's team had retrieved from the surface of the planet. He knew what the doctor's procedural DNA test had shown; but somehow, he had to see with his own eyes. It was the only way he could convince himself that his officer was actually dead.

He felt oddly impassive as Phlox led him to the corner of Sickbay where a thick black plastic bag lay on a biobed, concealed behind curtains. He wasn't sure what to expect. He'd heard the preliminary report of Reed's injuries, but official photos had not been taken yet. In addition, he wasn't sure what to expect from himself. Would even this make him accept Reed's death? Sitting in his office and staring blankly at Phlox's report, he'd found himself half-expecting to be hailed by a disgruntled Reed, asking why the hell he'd been left behind on the planet. The thought of his Tactical Officer's lifeless body lying in Sickbay was simply too surreal to fully accept.

"Captain, I must request that you not view the body," Phlox told him softly, though he was already preparing to unzip the bag. Archer guessed that the Doctor didn't actually expect him to agree, which was just as well since he didn't intend to.

"Doctor, if you would." He nodded toward the zipper. Phlox sighed.

"Please be advised that he suffered severe injuries before death. It is – 'not a pretty sight.'"

"I understand."

Phlox unzipped the bag and pulled the sides apart, then slowly folded back the dark cloth that covered Reed's body. Archer saw immediately that he had been right. It was not a pretty sight.

Reed's throat had been slit – and not with a single, clean cut. It looked as if someone with a blunt knife had tried repeatedly before finally managing to sever deep enough to kill. Worse still was the injuries to his chest. Two cuts, running diagonally perpendicular to form an "x," sliced through skin, muscle, and bone. The sides of the wound had been peeled back, exposing a bloody mass of internal organs. Archer was no doctor, but even he could tell that the organs had not remained undisturbed in the natives' gruesome exploration of the intruder on their world. Whether from curiosity or in some brutal ritual known only to them, the indigenous inhabitants of the planet below had apparently conducted a dissection of sorts.

Blood, mostly dried or coagulated, caked much of the body below the throat. A few trickles of dried blood still clung to the white face where they had run from Reed's nose and mouth. Besides that, the face showed little sign of trauma. There were no bruises; the eyes were almost shut, with just the barest slit of dull grey showing beneath the lids; and though the expression was pained, it showed no agony or fear.

Archer stared silently down at the body until Phlox slid the cloth back over Reed's chest and face and zipped the bag up again. This sound finally dragged him from the mesmerized stupor.

"There were no injuries of note on his lower body," Phlox said quietly. Archer nodded. It was good of the doctor to preserve Reed's dignity, even in death. Archer opened his mouth to thank Phlox for allowing him to view the body, but he couldn't find any words.

"He was drugged, Captain," Phlox said gently. "I am quite sure he was unconscious at the time of death."

Archer nodded slowly. Reed hadn't felt a thing. Did that make it better? Not really, Archer thought. He might not have been in pain, but neither had he been given the chance to fight. That wasn't what he would have wanted.

"Thank you, doctor." It wasn't what he wanted to say. _Who would do this_, perhaps, or _why did this happen? How could this happen? What the hell am I supposed to do?_ But he was the captain. It was his job to answer those questions for his grieving crew, not ask them. He looked up at Phlox as he spoke, and behind the Denobulan's professional calm he saw that the doctor was as shaken as he. Archer clasped Phlox's shoulder briefly. "Thank you," he repeated, feeling utterly inadequate.

He walked back up to the bridge in a mindless haze, the image of Reed's dead body imprinted firmly into his mind. What had he accomplished by looking at that? It was his duty, he supposed, in some way. Reed was his officer, and even now he had an obligation to him.

An obligation. Archer's heart sank. For the first time, he thought about his next steps. Clearly a conversation with Admiral Gardner was next – overdue, if he was being honest with himself. And after that…Reed's parents had to be notified.

It was not the first time Archer had had to notify next of kin of a death, but that made it no easier, and the fact that he'd had – at least to some extent, though he wasn't sure how far it had been reciprocated, especially in the past months – a personal as well as professional relationship with Reed only served to make the impending conversation more difficult. Not for the first time, Archer wished that Starfleet still practiced the old military tradition of notifying next of kin with an in-person visit from an experienced representative.

The atmosphere on the bridge was worse than Archer had ever seen it. Against his will, his eyes were immediately drawn to the tactical station, where Ensign Tanner sat hunched over the controls. He hadn't lowered the seat from the setting at which Reed had left it, which made it much too high for him. Archer scanned the crest of the crew silently. Mayweather had his back turned. His shoulders were slumped. Sato was fighting tears with marginal success, but her hands remained steady. Tucker was missing entirely. At a guess, he was either in his quarters or buried somewhere in the bowels of the ship's engines, trying to rid himself of the sight that Archer knew neither of them would stop seeing for a long time. Only T'Pol looked remotely normal, although she did not meet his eyes completely when he looked her way. Archer searched for something to say, but the well of available wisdom was dry. He cleared his throat before speaking.

"Travis, plot a course for Earth. Hold off on my word."

"Yes sir," Mayweather croaked. His hands trembled as he went to work on the control panel.

"If any of you need to be excused for personal reasons, you have my permission to call a relief," Archer told them. "It's been a difficult day. I'll be in my ready room if you need something. Please try not to disturb me; I'll be speaking with Admiral Gardner."

There was no answering murmur of assent, but he hadn't really expected one. At the door of the ready room he paused and turned to the tactical station.

"Ensign Tanner." Sentiment had no place in the continued function of the Enterprise. "Please lower your chair, it's much too high."

He suspected even Reed would have left Tanner alone.

* * *

Reed slept restlessly, feeling the time slipping by between indistinct, disturbing dreams of things he'd seen, things he'd done – or perhaps not. In the trance-like quality of his still somewhat drugged sleep, there was no way to be sure of the reality of what he saw. He woke, feeling mildly sick, some hours later, when Harris re-entered the room.

"Come," Harris said, seeing him awake. Still in his uniform, which had begun to feel sticky and uncomfortable, Reed slid off the hard bed and followed him, blinking to clear lingering sleepiness and dizziness from standing up too quickly.

As they walked through the ship, which Reed soon realised was a Bird of Prey, he caught glimpses now and again of its Klingon crew, but none spoke either to him or to Harris and for the most part they turned away upon seeing the two humans. This behaviour struck Reed as oddly uncharacteristic of the normally bold, aggressive species, but he knew better than to ask questions he didn't need the answers to.

From the Bird of Prey, they embarked onto a Starfleet shuttle, which surprised Reed. He glanced back at the Klingon ship as they left, but he couldn't see it.

"Is that ship cloaked?" he asked, disturbed.

"Yes," Harris said, and offered no explanation. As far as Reed knew, only the Romulans possessed effective cloaking technology – and the Romulans and Klingons were certainly not on friendly terms. The realisation that Klingons apparently now had cloaked ships was deeply unsettling. Reed slid into the co-pilot's seat beside Harris and stared out of the front viewport. They were approaching a half-built space station, one he'd never been to but recognised instantly both from pictures he'd seen and because of the planet looming behind it.

"Jupiter Station?"

He saw Harris's nod in his peripheral vision. "It's come a long way since you were last in the system," he said. "The lower half is already permanently staffed. Largely medical and scientific, of course, but we have a facility there as well. Experimental work, according to Starfleet pay rosters. We're studying psychological effects of life in deep space. I thought it was a nice little irony."

"How long was I out?" Reed asked, ignoring Harris's pleasure at the Section's deceit. The Enterprise had been far from the solar system; it would have taken them weeks at maximum warp to get back to Jupiter Station. Either Reed had been drugged unconscious for far longer than he thought, or the Klingons had higher warp power than he or anyone in Starfleet suspected. Harris only smiled and replied, "Long enough."

They docked at a small, isolated port in an unremarkable location a third of the way up the constructed bottom half of the enormous station. Once through the airlock, they were met by a young woman with short brown hair, dressed in the white coat-over-jeans of a casual physician's assistant or a lab technician.

"This is Sam," Harris said briefly, and Reed knew that was all he needed to know or was likely to ever know about this woman. "Go with her."

Somehow, Reed had expected Harris to stay with him. There was of course, he saw now, no reason for Harris to do so. Reed nodded acknowledgement and followed Sam as the woman started along the corridor.

"When was the last time you ate?" she asked over her shoulder in a pleasant but professional tone.

"I don't know," Reed said, honestly. "It's been a while. I'm not hungry, though."

"Oh, I wasn't offering you food," she said chirpily. "It's best if you haven't eaten in a while. You may feel nauseous."

"Why?" Reed asked warily, but the technician didn't answer. Reed supposed he would find out soon enough.

"Wait in here," she said at last, guiding him into a bare examination room, empty but for a strange-looking biobed and cabinets from floor to ceiling along one wall. The biobed had leather straps dangling from its sides, clearly restraints for its occupant. "We'll be ready for you soon. Please remove your clothing."

Reed stripped to his underwear, feeling remarkably un-self-conscious in the sterile medical environment. He did not sit on the biobed with its ominous straps, but instead leaned his back against the wall and settled himself to wait. In the absence of anything to occupy him, he felt his heartbeat begin to pick up. What were they going to do with him? Neither Harris's laconic replies nor Sam's "you may feel nauseous," boded particularly well for him. But anxiety, he reminded himself, was a luxury that he had little room for. No matter what Harris intended, it was going to happen regardless of what Reed personally thought about it.

He didn't have long to wait. Sam re-entered after only a few minutes, with a man about Reed's age who barely glanced at his patient. "This is him?"

"Yes." Sam adjusted the controls on the biobed until the back was raised to a seated position, and Reed realised that it was not a biobed at all, but a heavily-built medical chair. "Have a seat, Mr. Reed."

He seated himself obediently, without showing a trace of the reluctance he felt. In a business-like manner, Sam began fastening the straps over his wrists, arms, and legs. Reed felt his heart beating hard and fast with adrenaline.

"Is this really necessary?"

"Yes," Sam said, tightening a strap around his chest until he could feel it constricting his lungs. At least they didn't put a strap around his throat, Reed thought grimly. The man – a physician, Reed assumed, ran a hand scanner over him with the quick professionalism of a doctor with many patients to attend. He drew several vials of blood from Reed's arm, then unlocked the cabinets on the wall and opened them.

Lurking behind the wooden panelling like a carnivorous beast was a machine that Reed had never seen the like of. Wires drooped off of an oval-shaped body of dull grey metal, from which a hydraulic arm protruded. Most of the wires trailed up along this arm and attached to the round protrusion on the end, which was slightly larger than a human head. Reed was mesmerised by the bizarre sight until he realised with sudden alarm that this protrusion was to be placed over his head. He stiffened as the doctor moved the hydraulic arm toward him, but kept quiet. Harris knew what he was doing, didn't he?

It was dark inside the helmet-like contraption, and despite small vents in front of his nose and mouth, Reed felt the moisture of his breath pooling uncomfortably against his face. He couldn't see. He felt someone attaching small, needled ports to various places on his body – chest, arms, hands, and neck.

"We're going to perform a series of scans," Sam said, her voice sounding muffled through the metal around his head. "It may be uncomfortable for you, but you should experience a relative minimum of pain."

A _relative_ minimum of pain? What did that mean?

Lights popped brightly, directly in front of his eyes, making him flinch. The lights flashed again, and kept flashing, varying in pattern, tempo, colour, and intensity. It was dizzying. He closed his eyes against it, but the light glared through his eyelids so that it made no difference. A prickling pain shot through him from each of the ports connected to his body. It felt like he was being electrocuted, although it was not so much painful as incredibly uncomfortable. Reed clenched his hands involuntarily on the armrests as his muscles stiffened against his will. His head spun, and the lack of any visual reference point to orient himself made it worse.

He thought the lights stopped, but perhaps he only lost consciousness, because the next thing he knew the contraption was being removed from his head and most of the needled ports on his body were gone. He had no sense of how much time had passed, but he suspected it had been much longer than it seemed. The doctor was gone. Reed felt unnaturally exhausted, and he flinched uncomfortably at even the light touches of the restraints being removed. He kept his eyes pressed closed against the bright white lights of the exam room, fighting nausea and a migraine headache. The lights dimmed, blessedly.

"Mr. Reed?" the voice of the technician prompted him. Sam, he thought, trying to connect the name to something concrete. "Mr. Reed, can you open your eyes, please?"

He managed it with difficulty, and the world swam around him. Reed gagged from the dizziness and brought up nothing but acid into the basin held in front of him. He winced at the burn in his throat.

"This will pass soon," Sam said, sounding unconcerned, as if she'd seen it many times before. Probably she had.

The disorientation faded slowly and after a while Reed was able to open his eyes more than a pained slit. He was sore all over and his muscles kept twitching involuntarily, sending jolts of pain through his aching limbs. His head throbbed sharply with every beat of his heart. The leather of the seat burned against his bare skin.

"What did you do to me?" he croaked, his throat raw from acid.

"No permanent harm," Sam said. "Let me know when you can stand. I'll take you to somewhere more comfortable."

It was a long time before Reed could stand, and even then he needed the support of the wall. Sam provided him with loose-fitting garments of a thin, light material, and he dressed with painful slowness. Even the soft fabric stung his skin when it brushed against him.

"Hypersensitivity," the technician explained to his slightly-less-than-coherent question. "It's a common reaction."

All that meant to him was that everything bloody hurt. He limped out of the room with her support and after a time found himself being led into another bare room with a toilet and a sink in one corner and a cot on the other side. He collapsed on the cot, too exhausted to care about the shooting pains it sent through him. He heard the door lock after Sam left, and he had the distinct impression that he would never see her again – not that it mattered. He'd experienced this before in the Section. You hardly ever saw people who did things to you a second time. It was always a new face, one you couldn't associate with anything, either good or bad.

Reed curled into the least uncomfortable position he could find and closed his eyes, but his muscles kept spasming, twitching him away from the brink of a twilight sleep, and it was a long time before he fell into a troubled doze.

* * *

"I'd like to hunt down every one of those bastards and kill them with my bare hands," Tucker said hoarsely, not directing the words exactly at Archer but rather at a spot on the table of the Captain's mess somewhere between Archer's glass of scotch and his own – both untouched. "I know, it wouldn't do anything," he added miserably, forestalling the Captain, "but it might make me feel better."

"I doubt that," Archer said. He sounded unbearably weary. "You'd regret it."

"Maybe." He would regret it as soon as it was done, but his helpless rage wanted an outlet and found none. "I just wish – he shoulda gone down fightin', Cap'n, not like this." Not drugged and helpless, perhaps struggling feebly as the aliens slit his throat and carved open his chest with their dull knives. It might have taken him a long time to die. Tucker felt sick at the though. He never would have pictured it like this – Malcolm, killed in a meaningless, freakish murder by a barely-sentient species on a planet with no more significance than the next. It was such an un-Malcolm-like way to die that Tucker was sure he would never be able to reconcile his friend's death with the circumstances.

"I know," Archer agreed. His face was lined with pain. He looked older than Tucker had ever seen him. "I think Gardner blames me for carelessness. He's right; we jumped straight into that planet without bothering to take a closer look."

"It's not your fault. The scans –"

"I know," Archer said again. "But that doesn't make me feel better about it." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands. "Goddammit. Goddammit, Trip, now I've got to call his parents…"

Tucker closed his eyes and tried not to think about it, but the thought of how his own parents would react crept into the back of his mind anyway. "Can't Gardner –"

"He offered," Archer said, raising his head wearily. "But it's my job. I am – I was his commanding officer."

Tucker nodded, accepting the reason. He knew he would have done the same thing, in Archer's position, and he respected the Captain for it. But still…

"Gardner's going to find a replacement," Archer said. "For now, Ensign Tanner's taking over."

A replacement. It sounded horribly wrong. A replacement for Malcolm.

"You can't replace him," Tucker said thickly, and Archer didn't argue because he understood. Another person might sit at Reed's station on the bridge, might do his job and protect the ship and offer strategic advice, but there could never really be a replacement. Reed quite simply couldn't be replaced. Tucker thought about Reed's snarky banter, his bits of wisdom that always popped up when they were most needed and least expected, and his fierce loyalty and devotion to the Enterprise and her crew. His eyes burned. "Dammit," he muttered, rubbing the palm of his hand roughly across his eyes. "Why didn't he stay closer?"

Why hadn't he, actually? It wasn't like Reed to be so careless, to wander off like he had. Why hadn't he stayed close and on the alert, as Tucker had seen him do on so many other unknown planets?

The door chime rang, and Archer raised his head, sending a glance Tucker's way before calling, "Come in."

Unexpectedly, it was Phlox, and there was a strange expression on the Denobulan's face. He held a PADD, which he set on the table in front of Archer.

"This is a full autopsy report of the body Commander Tucker brought back from the surface," he said, acknowledging Tucker with a nod.

This seemed an oddly callous way to talk about Reed, and by the slight frown on Archer's face he thought the same thing.

"Yew mean Malcolm," Tucker said, a little sharply.

"On the contrary," Phlox said softly, "I do not believe the body you retrieved from the surface belonged to Lieutenant Reed."

Archer rose to his feet with something perilously close to hope in his eyes. "Explain, Doctor."

* * *

"This is a comparison of Lieutenant Reed's DNA with that of the body Commander Tucker found," Phlox said. The three of them were in Sickbay, and Phlox had projected the information on the PADD up on a larger monitor. "The two are very similar – practically identical, in fact, except for a small marker I found here." He indicated something that Tucker couldn't distinguish from what the DNA strand was meant to look like.

"My initial DNA test confirmed a match to Lieutenant Reed," Phlox said. "Retinal scans showed the same scar pattern, and the burn scars on his arms were also identical. I didn't find anything unusual during the examination. However, as you know, the body that Commander Tucker retrieved was…severely injured. When I began to clean off the blood in preparation for a stasis chamber, I noticed something odd. Yesterday, Lieutenant Reed suffered a hypospanner cut on his left hand. I prescribed three treatments with the dermal regenerator. As yet, he had only completed two. Although there was no longer an open wound, there was a very distinct mark where the injury was – inflammation, scar tissue, and stiffness. This body has absolutely no sign of such an injury. So I took a second look at the DNA."

Phlox straightened, settling his hands behind his back. "Captain, do you remember the Lyssarian Desert Larva?"

Archer's reaction was immediate and unmistakeable. He stiffened and his eyes widened. "Yes," he said after a moment's pause, his voice rough. "I remember."

The name was vaguely familiar to Tucker too. Some years ago, he'd been seriously injured and in a coma. What had happened had never been fully explained to him, for when he asked Archer had gone quiet, looking haunted; Reed had refused to meet his eyes and muttered something about a disagreement of methodology; and Phlox had flat-out refused to discuss it with him. He had seen the body, though, the body that looked exactly like his, heard the rumours about a clone and about murder. He'd heard mention of the Lyssarian Desert Larva, though he had only a dim idea of what exactly it was.

"It's a clone?" Archer asked in a brittle voice.

"That is what I believe, Captain. This DNA marker is characteristic of the Desert Larva." He paused. "I feel the need to add, Captain, that I cannot be completely certain of this. I do not know the full extent of the sedative chemical on the human body, since I neutralized it in Crewman Novakovich. Perhaps the chemical has some kind of regenerative properties, and it could also explain the discrepancies in DNA. This body could still belong to Lieutenant Reed."

"I understand," Archer acknowledged, but Tucker could hear the hope in his voice. "Doctor, please forward a full report of your findings and all applicable data to Starfleet Medical. I will contact Admiral Gardner. Trip, help T'Pol with calibrating those scanners. If that isn't Malcolm, I mean to find out where the hell he is and who is behind this."

* * *

Reed woke to the sound of the door opening. Someone flicked on the light in the bare room, and Reed sat up, squinting at his visitor. He still ached all over, but his clothing no longer burned his skin and the migraine had faded to a dull, bearable throb.

"Feeling better, I hope?" Harris inquired.

"What did they do to me?" Reed asked. Harris waved a hand dismissively.

"A scan, of a sort. We needed to determine the full extent of the temporal anomaly's physical effects on your body."

"And it required _that_?"

"We got what we needed," Harris said, without answering the question. "We also removed trace amounts of a certain substance from your body – a substance we can use to protect the mind against the effects of a temporal anomaly."

The Zytexian perfume. Of course the Section wanted to get its hands on that. Reed wondered at the choice of words – Harris made it sound as if the chemical had been entirely eliminated from his body. Not that he would mind that, but his inability to fully grasp his former handler's meaning irked him. He was used to being able to see through Harris's smokescreens better than this.

"A vaccine against time travel, perhaps," Harris said. "You are already proving your value, Mr. Reed."

"Is that all you want from me?"

Harris laughed. "I see you're not quite recovered after all. If that was all we wanted, we wouldn't have bothered with the elaborate hoax of your apparent death."

"Of course," Reed said acerbically. "How stupid of me. I suppose you want information, too."

"I did say that when we first spoke, didn't I," Harris mused. "The fact is, Lieutenant, we've already got all the information we need. I'm sorry to disappoint you. I'm sure you would enjoy recounting all the sordid details of your adventures all over again, but we're not going to learn anything from that. We have your reports, and they do have a certain charming ring of truth in them. They are quite in character with you."

Reed willed himself not to react to the subtle taunts in Harris's words. "Then let me go back to the Enterprise." It couldn't, of course, be that easy. As Harris had just said, a simple blood sample would not call for such a ruse.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Harris said disapprovingly. "The Section isn't in the habit of going to unnecessary lengths to retrieve things it doesn't require."

The thing in question being him, Reed thought. But he'd known that all along. Harris didn't just want his medical data; as he'd said in their first conversation, he wanted _Reed_.

"Then get to the point," Reed said impatiently. "Tell me what you want so I can get it over with as soon as possible."

"So you've agreed to do whatever we want?" Harris teased.

"I don't see that I have much choice."

"You don't." Harris leaned forward, abandoning his own amusement and growing serious. "The Section has a mission for you."

Reed eyed him sceptically. "It's been years since I've been in the field."

"Are you telling me you're incapable?" Harris asked, a flicker of anger in his tone. "You know your contract to the Section, Malcolm. I hardly believe you'd allow yourself to grow soft. Surely I trained you better than that."

"Maybe I have gotten soft," Reed said. "Maybe I'm not fit for this anymore. Maybe I've forgotten what it means to be an agent of the Section."

Harris smiled darkly at him. "I don't think so. See, here's what I think, Malcolm, I think you've tried to forget. You've done everything you could to forget. You've tried to make yourself a new life, but deep inside you haven't forgotten. How could you? I trained you not to."

"Your training wasn't perfect."

"My training was exactly as it should have been," Harris said. "If it failed, it's because you weren't exactly as you should have been."

That was true enough. Reed shook his head in unconvinced denial. Harris patted him on the cheek lightly. The action was too familiar; it felt violating.

"I have work for you. But I don't want Malcolm Reed; that is useless to me. I want Blackbird back."

It was the code name he'd used, many years ago during his time under Harris. He'd been given it by another agent, one long dead now, who had told him he was 'like Poe's raven – grim, ungainly, ominous – "quoth the Raven, _Nevermore_."' The team he'd been with then had started calling him 'Blackbird' and the name had stuck. It struck at him now with the powerful compulsion of memory. Reed forced himself not to grimace.

"Blackbird is dead."

"You've tried to kill that part of yourself, haven't you?" Harris laughed. "You've tried to be an honourable man. It's a beautiful persona, I grant you. Tell me, who do you do it for? Trip? Jonathan Archer? You like them to think highly of you, yes? Or is it for Hoshi Sato? She's very lovely. I wonder what she'd think of you if she knew what you've done."

"Don't you dare talk about Hoshi," Reed snarled. Sato's name did not belong on the lips of a man such as Harris. _But you are a man such as Harris_, his mind whispered back at him. As infuriating and painful as the older agents words were, Reed knew they were largely true. Not for the first time, he wished he had never heard of the Section. He wished he truly was the clean, respectable officer that most of the crew of the Enterprise believed him to be. Harris watched him thoughtfully.

"I see," he said at last. "But here's the problem, Malcolm. No matter how hard you try to make yourself into Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of the starship Enterprise, you'll never be him. You can't erase who you are. Blackbird is not dead; if he was, you would not have come. You would have gone to your Captain and reported everything to him. Why didn't you?"

Why hadn't he? Archer couldn't fault him when he hadn't initiated the contact with Harris. He could have recorded the entire conversation and brought it to the Captain.

But it wouldn't have ended there. Archer would never have been satisfied without a thorough explanation, not after a second incident involving Reed's murky past, and Reed would have had to come clean to him. And even though the Captain had an inkling that his tactical officer had been involved in questionable circles, the truth was an entirely different beast.

"You were protecting yourself. Your personal interests." Harris leaned forward. "Tell me, does that sound like something the noble, self-sacrificing Lieutenant Reed would do? I think not. But that is something that my Blackbird would do. Protect himself. You haven't changed. You can lie to yourself and to Archer as much as you want, but every lie you tell keeps Blackbird alive. Go ahead, try to pretend that you're something you're not. After all, you thrive on deception."

Reed gritted his teeth in helpless anger, but there was nothing he could say. After everything he had done to try to turn his life around – and in five minutes, Harris had twisted it into something filthy and corrupted. And the worst part was, the handler was right. Wasn't he? What other explanation was there? All these wasted years of trying to live a life he could be proud of. It hadn't been easy. Sometimes he'd feared that he could never consider his life without the sick twist of disgust and loathing in his gut. Now, that fear was horribly justified. He would never be anything but a fraud with blood on his hands and deception in his mouth. How could he ever have hoped to be anything else?

"Some men are made for the spotlight," Harris said gently. "Your Captain Archer, for one. But you and I are a different kind, Malcolm. We are made to live in the shadows. Ours is a different calling. You cannot change who you are." He rose to his feet. "Come. It's been too long since you've eaten. Join me for a meal. Then, it is time for you to learn your mission."


	4. Chapter 4

_"Not him? Perhaps you should explain yourself, Jonathan."_ Admiral Gardner frowned at Archer. _"The DNA was identical."_

"Not quite," Archer said. "My doctor found an unusual marker in the DNA of the body we found that indicates it could be a mimetic simbiot formed by a Lyssarian Desert Larva. Are you familiar with the species?"

_"I am,"_ Gardner assented. _"However, Starfleet medical has examined the information that your doctor sent and has found nothing to indicate that this genome was artificially replicated, or replaced in any way. Every test they ran indicates that this body does, in fact belong to Lieutenant Reed."_

"Respectfully, sir, Phlox informed me –"

_"Jonathan."_ Gardner held up a hand to prevent argument. _"I understand how you feel, but Lieutenant Reed is dead. Finding ways to deny it isn't going to do you any good."_

"I'm not trying to deny anything," Archer said through clenched teeth. "But if there's the slightest possibility that my officer is still alive, I won't give up searching until I find him."

Gardner stared at him impassively. _"Very well,"_ he said at last. _"I'll give you forty-eight hours to search for him. If you haven't uncovered anything conclusive by then, you will give this up. Don't make me order you."_

Archer nodded grimly. _"One other thing,"_ Gardner added. _"You should know that Lieutenant Reed's parents have been informed of his death."_

"What?" Archer sat up, outraged. "Admiral! You agreed to allow me to contact them. We're not even sure that he is dead!"

_"I made no promises, Jonathan. And I had a feeling you would find a reason to delay."_

"A reason to delay! Admiral –"

Gardner shook his head. _"Don't let emotion cloud your judgement. You have two days to start acting rational."_

The screen flicked to Starfleet's logo with a soft chirp, leaving Archer seething. "Dammit!" He smashed his fist on the desk. Porthos jumped up from where he'd been sleeping on the floor with a yelp.

"He doesn't know Phlox," Archer said to the dog, frustratedly. "And he doesn't know Malcolm. Something's wrong here, and I mean to find out what it is."

Porthos whined and wriggled. Feeling disproportionately tired and melancholy, Archer gazed out of the small viewport of his ready room. What if Gardner was right? Was he clinging to a threadbare explanation out of false hope that Reed was still alive?

"Never should have come to this planet," Archer muttered guiltily. Porthos sprang up onto his lap and licked his chin, whining. "You miss him too, buddy? Let's hope T'Pol finds a way to scan this godforsaken planet soon."

* * *

The ship _Stalagmite_ was a freighter, both in appearance and in Starfleet records. However, as far as the Section was concerned it was far more: it was a ship of war, powered by the strongest warp engines the Klingons had to offer, cloaked with Romulan technology, equipped with the cutting edge of Vulcan science instruments, and staffed with a crew of grim, silent Section agents that Reed was told 'belonged to the ship.' They weren't a part of this mission. The Stalagmite's advanced weapons systems – of which Reed was only permitted the briefest glimpse – was enough to make any self-respecting Armoury officer giddy. It also suggested that the ship was expected to encounter some formidably armed enemy.

Reed was initially curious and wary at the apparent lack of a team. Individual missions were rare and usually reserved for infiltration purposes only. Harris did not keep him in suspense for long.

"Since Jonathan Archer's rather unusual report concerning the so-called 'Anachron Incident,' the Section has been performing intensive scans for Cherenkov radiation near all Starfleet, Section, and allied holdings. The results are somewhat disconcerting." Harris displayed a star chart on the monitor of the small, sound-proofed briefing room. "You may not be familiar with this region of space. It is approximately two light years from the binary star system where you encountered the Anachron species, and is under the control of the Romulan Star Empire." The agent tapped a few buttons on his keyboard, and the star chart was overlaid with a light blue haze. Reed's attention was immediately attracted by a small planet near the edge of the screen, which glowed as brightly blue as a star.

"Yes, that is what concerns us also," Harris said, watching Reed's reaction. "We believe this planet is shielded by the same technology that cloaked the ship you found. When scanned, this planet appears to be bare and rocky, with nothing of interest. Given recent events, it seems this may be deceptive."

"You said it's in Romulan territory," Reed said. "You're working with them, I assume?" It wasn't a complete surprise that the Section would be working undercover with an obscure, little-known race. But apart from getting himself skewered on a piece of a Romulan mine once, Reed had no experience with the mysterious species. He'd been under the impression that no one knew much about the Romulans and it wasn't wise to ask, given their technological power and easily-provoked aggression. You didn't bother them, and they kept to themselves. But it was never that simple.

"We work with everyone," Harris said. "But not openly. Not with the Romulan Senate, anyway. However, we are in close contact with an organization called the Tal Shiar, which serves approximately the same service for the Romulan people as we do for the human race. They have proved quite willing to cooperate with us. In fact, they have even requested our assistance in this matter. You will be working alongside them in this operation."

That idea wasn't particularly appealing, but Reed accepted it philosophically. Extreme circumstances made for strange bedfellows. One thing still nagged at him, though.

"You said this was a threat to Earth."

"If it is a threat to the Tal Shiar," Harris said, "then it is also a threat to the Section, and to Starfleet. Starfleet is the future of Earth, make no mistake about that."

Reed looked at him doubtfully. "Lieutenant," Harris said condescendingly, "need I remind you that you are but one small cog in the great machine at work here. The Section is far more entangled than you will ever know. There are many forces at work here of which you know nothing."

Reed nodded stiff acknowledgement. He knew that was true, and he didn't want to know of those forces. There were many things it was best to be unaware of. Still, he watched Harris with slight distrust.

"I don't know much more about the Anachrons than anyone else," Reed said at last. "So why me?"

"The Romulans requested you specifically." Harris spread his hands expansively. "And why not?"

* * *

"It just doesn't make sense," Tucker mused aloud as he studied the computer monitor in front of him. "Malcolm ain't careless. He shouldn't have been so far away." He glanced over his shoulder at Archer, who studiously ignored the engineer's continued reference to Reed in the present tense. "Yew said he wasn't even supposed to be on that mission. He asked to go."

Archer was well aware of this, having repeatedly traced through a myriad of inconsistencies on his own. Hearing Tucker voice them aloud only strengthened his conviction that, whatever Admiral Gardner said, all was not as it seemed. There was something else going on, some unknown factor lurking beneath the surface. Moreover, he had a suspicion as to what it might be.

Ever since Reed's betrayal on the orders of the mysterious Harris – back during the Klingon debacle, as Archer tended to think of it – he had struggled to recover his formerly absolute trust in Reed. The Lieutenant had promised his loyalty to Archer over all else and had sworn that he would never again contact Harris. And Archer had believed him – at least, believed him enough to allow Reed to resume his position on the Enterprise.

The fact was that a large part of that willingness to give a second chance had been rooted in Archer's persuasion that no matter how Reed's actions appeared on the surface, there had been an underlying reason. Something had been compelling enough to make Reed, a man of honour, commit insubordination. Either Reed had truly believed he was doing the right thing, or whatever authority Harris had over him went far beyond mere organizational loyalty. Archer hoped it was the first. If honour had indeed been the driving force behind Reed's apparently dishonourable actions, then he could be trusted again. If not, then he would come to Harris's call the next time the mysterious Section agent wanted him. It was upon his hopes about the truth of the situation that Archer had pinned his decision to restore Reed's position.

The whole fiasco had brought to Archer's attention the fact that he knew startlingly little about his Tactical Officer. Apart from random, scattered facts that he'd picked up from various sources – mostly Reed himself – over the years, the man was a completely closed book. Archer knew that he liked pineapples, didn't like water, and was the first male member of his family in a number of generations to deviate from the tradition of service in the Royal Navy. Archer had drawn his own inferences as to why Reed had chosen not to pursue such a career, but he had not asked and Reed had not offered the information. Despite Archer's words to him in the brig, Reed had not exactly said 'a lot' about his father, or for that matter any member of his family. He'd made some offhanded remarks, some of which had even at the time come across as unduly sarcastic, and Archer had made assumptions and put the pieces together from there. Reed, he guessed, had a high regard for the Royal Navy in general and his father in particular, but had invoked his father's disapproval when he had elected to take a different career path. Reed's reaction to Archer's venomous words in the brig had as much as confirmed some of that; the rest, it seemed now, he might never know.

He had read through Reed's full personnel file after that incident, while the Lieutenant was still being held in the brig. Archer rarely read personnel files, preferring to get to know his people in person unless an issue arose and required perusal of past records. He knew first-hand that what showed up in someone's file wasn't always a good representation of their character. Both he and Tucker had been haunted for several years by an incident in their own records regarding the unauthorized launch ('absconsion' had been the word used) of a Starfleet test vessel. Archer didn't want his crew to have to worry about his opinion of them being tainted by their previous errors. However, in Reed's case he had made an exception to his rule.

But the file had been entirely unhelpful, and ultimately raised more questions than it answered. It had listed Reed's full name, birthdate, birthplace, citizenship information, and family members (one sister, younger. Parents, married. Both living.) There had been a home of record listed – one. An apartment in San Francisco. The file noted that he had leased the apartment from 2145 to 2149, meaning that the lease had begun a full four years after Reed's graduation from Starfleet Academy at the age of 24, and ended two years before the Enterprise mission. He'd apparently not lived anywhere on Earth during either of the intervening periods – but there were no records of him being off-planet, either. His record of service after graduation was equally mysterious. A few positions were mentioned in the vaguest terms, but all of them had been of short duration. He was clearly well trained and well qualified for his job, but what specifically he had been doing was not discussed. There had been a brief note mentioning "Starfleet Intelligence," which had led Archer to a dead end – a _classified_ dead end – when he tried to dig further. In short, the file told him absolutely nothing, and did so very mysteriously. It was oddly in character with the Reed he was coming to know.

But despite what Reed had done, and despite the questions raised by his strange personnel file, Archer had opted to trust him again. He hadn't questioned Reed about the file, either; he'd wanted to give the man a clean slate.

Archer was only now beginning to wonder if that trust had been misplaced.

It was ironic that Reed's apparent death had led Archer to begin doubting the man's trustworthiness. That seemed wrong. He should respect the memory of a good officer, not use the death to dredge up past mistakes. But was Reed dead? Phlox's evidence suggested not, and combined with the small inconsistencies that both he and Tucker had noticed, Archer was more than half inclined to believe that Reed might still be alive.

In which case, he was either kidnapped – or a deserter.

Rationally, Archer wasn't sure which he should prefer. He couldn't bear the thought of Reed deserting, but at the same time, how could he hope that one of his officers had been kidnapped? For the moment, he reminded himself, it didn't really matter. Either way he was responsible for finding Reed. The Lieutenant's intentions mattered little at this stage of the search.

He had to assume that Reed had been kidnapped. And if that was the case – which he hoped it was, whatever his logical mind told him – then every passing moment put Reed in more danger.

"Hm," Tucker said thoughtfully, drawing Archer's attention back to the monitor in front of them. It was Reed's personal monitor in his quarters, the only place that was likely to hold any answers. The room itself was almost disturbingly devoid of personal touches. There were no pictures, and only a few books covering a scattered and apparently random range of topics on the small shelf near the desk. "Take a look at this, Cap'n."

'This' was a graph showing a jagged line which could represent absolutely anything as far as Archer was concerned. "What am I looking at, Trip?"

"It's a graph of power used over time," Tucker explained. "Fer this particular monitor, I mean. I'm lookin' at the period of twenty-four hours before Malcolm left th' ship. Take a look here." Tucker magnified the image and pointed to a section that was noticeably elevated above the rest. "Startin' at about 2100 th' night before he left, his computer had elevated power output for just under ten minutes. That's not unusual if he was usin' it, but I wouldn't expect t' see quite such a change. I'd say he was transmitting on an encrypted channel – probably live stream, audio and video. Not much else that I've seen uses power like this."

Archer studied the screen, eyes narrowed in thought. "Did you check the transmission logs?"

"First thing I did, Captain. Nothing there. He must've deleted it." Tucker leaned back with a sigh. "Did a pretty thorough job of it, too. I couldn't get anything at all. Wonder who he was talkin' to."

Archer had a nasty feeling that he knew the answer to that. He said nothing, which made Tucker glance up at him.

"I don't know what he'd have to hide," Tucker added, sounding less convinced than his words suggested. "Maybe it had nothin' t' do with this…"

"That's possible," Archer said stiffly. He was thinking of Reed lying straight to his face, in his office no less, telling him that the weapon signatures hadn't been Klingon. Lying even after he knew he was caught. He thought of Reed's promise to never contact Harris again.

He thought of himself, ordering Reed to "talk to a friend of his." Reed had protested – not to the point of disrespect, of course, but he had been white-faced and ramrod-stiff as he left. What had he known then? An eye for an eye, perhaps?

Archer brushed away the condemning thoughts. If Reed had indeed left on an errand of Harris's doing, it had been entirely his choice. He could have come to Archer with it; but he hadn't. He'd disappeared.

Or, he was dead and all this was mere speculation.

"Cap'n," Tucker said in a very troubled voice, "does this have anything t' do with what happened while I was on th' Columbia?"

"I don't know."

"I don't know what happened, Cap'n, an' I'm not askin'. But whatever it was, he was real upset about it."

"Was he," Archer said icily. "I should hope so."

He didn't, of course. He knew all too well that he had overstepped his boundaries so far that another man might have reported him for it. How had he allowed himself to sink to personal insults? The Expanse had changed him, he knew, and not for the better. But _still_. It had been a low blow. And instead of firing back as Archer had half-hoped he would, Reed had taken it in silence. Archer knew that he'd hurt him deeply. Perhaps that, too, had been part of why he'd decided to keep Reed. The Lieutenant had certainly done wrong by him, but he'd done wrong by Reed too. Quid pro quo. An apology, of sorts.

Tucker looked like he wanted to say something sharp, but shrugged unhappily instead. "I don't know what you're thinking, Cap'n, but I'm not countin' on Malcolm still bein' alive. I know what Phlox said, but there could be an explanation fer that. Jes' before yew go getting' all mad an' self-righteous at him, remember that he could be dead. Yew wouldn't want t' go accusin' him of doin' something wrong and then find out he's…well. I think you know what I'm tryin' t' say, Cap'n."

Archer did know. He closed his eyes briefly against a twinge of remorse. What if he was wrong? What if his officer had done nothing wrong, and he was inwardly accusing him of crimes when in fact Reed really was lying dead in Sickbay?

It was a possibility he couldn't ignore, but instinct told him differently.

"Listen, Trip, there's a lot that's gone on with Malcolm that you don't know the details of. You saw part of it when you came back from the Columbia. I can't tell you what happened. Suffice it to say that he got involved in some…questionable things in the past, and one of those came back to bite him. And I know I've no certain way of knowing, but this – this would fit just a little too well."

"If you say so, Cap'n," Tucker said quietly. "It's jes' that you've been real hard on him since then. I'm not sure he deserves that."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Archer snapped, on edge with guilt and uncertainty. He immediately wanted to apologize, but he didn't. The days when he could be open with Tucker – when he could admit that he was flying blind and needed another point of view – had long gone. Another sacrifice to the Expanse. He straightened and turned for the door, feeling more than hearing Tucker's stiff silence. "Keep looking. Let me know if you find anything."

"Yes sir," Tucker answered softly. His voice was unreadable.

Archer left feeling old and ill. It was at times like this, he thought, when he wondered what his life could have been if he'd never taken this post.

* * *

"I expect you to be on your best behaviour," Harris told Reed. There was a note of amusement in his tone, as if the idea or Reed not being on his best behaviour was ridiculous. "The Romulans are a proud people, and if you offend them I won't be able to cover for you. This isn't Starfleet, Lieutenant."

"Right." As if he didn't know that. Ever since he'd awakened two days ago on the Klingon ship, Reed had been gradually sliding back into his old role as an agent of the Section. It had been far too easy; but if he ever wanted to return to the Enterprise, he could not afford to let that trouble him. There would be time for self-reflection and self-loathing after all this was over. That too was familiar: In a mission, personal feelings were a risk that had to be postponed, if not eliminated.

As soon as they docked with the Romulan vessel, Harris hurried Reed down to the airlock. Reed got the feeling that Harris didn't want the encounter to last any longer than it had to. Either that, or he wanted Reed to think that. The former tactical officer had long ago learned never to take the Agent's words or actions at face value.

Four armed Romulans stood inside the airlock, which sealed closed behind Reed and Harris. Reed was instantly on high alert, though Harris did not appear surprised. The door in front of them slid open, and a Romulan man dressed in regal black stepped in, flanked by two more guards.

"Harris." Through the Universal translator, his voice carried a slight accent. "You have brought the prisoner?"

Prisoner? Reed's uneasiness increased tenfold.

"Captain Keyar, a pleasure to do business with you again. This is Lieutenant Reed."

The Romulan, Keyar, studied Reed openly and looked unimpressed. He nodded to one of the guards. "Take him." The two guards grabbed Reed roughly by the arms.

"What is this?" Reed spat at Harris. The man smiled at him.

"I told you, Malcolm, I can still use you. And you are helping the Section." He turned to Keyar. "I hope you intend to hold up your end of the bargain, Captain?"

"I scanned your ship," Keyar said with a nod. "I see that you have come prepared to take what you came for if I do not. But you have no reason to worry, Harris. It is on a shuttle to your ship as we speak."

Reed understood, then, the full extent of the betrayal. He was not to work with the Romulans; he was being traded, like a piece of technology, in exchange for something the Romulans had that Harris wanted. He was, quite literally, being sold out.

"You bastard," he hissed, covering his fear with anger. "You bloody bastard, Harris. What the hell have you done?"

"Believe me, Malcolm, I take no pleasure in this," Harris said quite seriously. "But the simple fact remains that I need you less than I need what the Romulans have to offer. It's business. You know the Section has no room for personal attachments. I am simply doing the logical thing, the thing which will help the Section the most. The right thing."

Reed stood silent and furious and terrified, knowing there was no point in arguing. He remembered the code of the Section; though he wanted to deny it, there was an element of truth in Harris's words. There was nothing personal in this. That did nothing to make his present situation more palatable.

"Try not to kill him," Harris said to Keyar. "I'd like him back when you're done with him."

Keyar smiled politely, exposing sharp canine teeth. "Of course. But I'm afraid he won't be of much use to you or anyone else once we're done with him."

Harris shrugged dispassionately. "Well," he said, "I'd like to get back whatever is left."

* * *

"I want to speak with Harris," Archer said wrathfully as soon as Admiral Gardner's face materialized on the computer screen before him.

Gardner looked startled, perhaps as much at the tone and manner of the request as at the words. _"To…who?"_

"Harris," Archer repeated. "Of Section 31."

Gardner blinked, nonplussed but with annoyance growing in his expression as his surprise faded. _"Captain, I suggest you take a moment to consider your attitude."_

Archer resisted the urge to snap back. He took a long, calming breath and reminded himself that there was a chance, however outside, that Gardner truly didn't know who Harris was.

"I apologize for my hastiness, Admiral," he lied. It was as much of a concession as he felt capable of making. "I would like to speak with Harris. I believe you are in contact with him."

_"Who is this Harris?"_ Gardner asked. Archer did not miss his uncomfortable readjustment in his chair.

"Harris is an agent of Section 31. You're familiar with the Section, I presume?"

_"Captain, please refrain from such discussion,"_ Gardner said agitatedly. _"This channel is not top-secret encrypted."_

"So you do know," Archer said, vindicated.

_"I have no idea who this Harris is,"_ Gardner insisted. Archer couldn't tell if he was lying. _"Jonathan, what's this about? I got called out of a meeting with the Section Commander for this. It had better be something important."_

"I believe Harris has something to do with Malcolm's disappearance," Archer started, but the Admiral held up a hand to stop him.

_"Jonathan, please. Listen to yourself."_ He sighed and assumed a sympathetic tone. _"I know the loss of Lieutenant Reed has been very difficult for you, but you must compose yourself. I understand your desire to hold out hope. However, all available medical data suggests that Lieutenant Reed is dead. I gave you two days to search. That's almost up, and I won't have you using wild flights of fantasy to overrule my orders."_

"Doctor Phlox found evidence that the body found on the surface of the planet was a clone," Archer said sharply. "Re-examine your data, Admiral, I urge you."

_"I already had the doctors examine it again, after your insistence that their conclusions were incorrect. Two different teams, both well-informed on the genetic markers of the Lyssarian Desert Larva. You see, Captain, if there was even the slightest chance that Lieutenant Reed was still alive, I would be as eager as you to find him. Unfortunately, the evidence leaves no room for any debate. Starfleet doctors found no sign to suggest that this body was a clone."_

Archer seethed in silent frustration, wondering how Starfleet doctors could be so blind. He himself had needed the genetic discrepancy pointed out, but it had been clear enough once he understood what he was looking for. It should have been even more obvious to trained doctors. A nasty suspicion slid uninvited into the back of his mind. What if Gardner's doctors were agents of the Section? Moreover, what if Gardner himself was working with Harris? He could be lying straight to Archer's face and the Captain would never even know. He watched the Admiral distrustfully on the monitor.

_"In any case, what makes you think that this 'Harris' has anything to do with Lieutenant Reed?"_

Archer almost said 'previous experience,' but didn't. The episode in which Reed had been thrown in the brig, as well as his later meeting with Harris at Archer's request, had both gone slightly…under-documented. Few enough people had known about it that with some assistance from T'Pol, Archer had managed to document the first episode in true but minimally revealing terms, and the second encounter with Harris had remained entirely off the record. Then, too, despite the circumstantial evidence from Reed's personal computer which, along with personal experience, provided a persuasive argument for Harris's involvement, Archer realised that he had very little which would, to the Admiral, constitute a convincing suggestion of untoward activity. He stumbled for an explanation, but was mercifully interrupted when Gardner looked up and called "come in," presumably in answer to some knock. Someone spoke to him, voice muffled by distance from the microphone.

_"Yes. Yes, of course. Tell him I'm on my way."_ He turned back to Archer. _"I'm needed in that meeting, Captain. Please consider what I've said. If you find anything certain, I will of course be happy to review it. But as the facts stand, I suggest you accustom yourself to the idea of gaining a new Tactical Officer. Don't allow your judgement to become unduly clouded by emotion. You have your orders, Jonathan. Your two days are nearly up."_

"Yes, sir," Archer acknowledged, filled with helpless frustration. Even as they spoke, Reed could be dying somewhere on the planet thousands of kilometres below the safety of the Enterprise. In fact, he could be anywhere at all.

The Admiral's connection ended, but instead of being replaced by Starfleet's standard communique terminated screen, the view of Gardner's office was directly replaced with another communications link. The man staring out of Archer's screen was unfamiliar to him.

_"Hello, Captain Archer. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. My name is Harris."_

* * *

_"I understand you've been trying to contact me,"_ Harris went on, when Archer was too stunned to respond immediately. _"Unlike your channel with Admiral Gardner, this is a top-secret encrypted channel. In fact it's quite a bit more than that; you should be aware that as soon as this link is terminated, all records of it, of any kind, anywhere in your database, will be permanently and irretrievably deleted."_

"Unauthorised tapping of private official communications is punishable under the Starfleet Code of Justice," Archer said stiffly, buying himself a few seconds to regain his severely shaken equilibrium.

_"Captain, I don't think that's what you wanted to discuss with me. If it is, then I am sincerely disappointed."_ Harris wasn't smiling, but he looked amused. Archer cut right to the chase.

"What have you done with my Tactical Officer?"

_"He's not dead, if that's what you're asking."_ Archer felt a thrill of relief, followed instantly by anxiety. He was tremendously glad that Reed was alive – at least, if Harris was speaking the truth – but this opened up a whole new can of worms that Archer had no idea how to tackle. _"And he wasn't taken against his will,"_ the agent added. Archer's stomach knotted with cold resignation. If what Harris said was true – and given that all traces of the communication would be deleted, Archer couldn't see what motive he would have in lying – then Reed had broken his promise of loyalty, deserted, and could potentially be accused of treason. Reed had betrayed him. Again.

"I hardly imagine you expect me to believe you," he said coldly. Harris shrugged.

_"It is of little consequence to me whether or not you do believe me, but he did come willingly and knowingly. Malcolm's word, Captain, may not be as binding as you supposed."_

"I trust my crew," Archer informed him unequivocally. Although generally accurate, it was in context a bald-faced lie. He knew what Harris said was true. He could feel it. He knew Reed had lied, or at the very least broken his word.

_"Very well."_ Harris smiled as if Archer's untruths were as transparent as they felt. _"You have an excellent doctor, by the way. I had anticipated at least a week before he discovered that the body was a clone."_

Clone murder, Archer thought. Premeditated murder? He felt sick, knowing that he was no better than Harris. The reasons for committing such an act hardly mattered. No matter how noble his intent to save Tucker had been, all those months ago, there was still no justification.

_"It's a shame your doctor won't be commended for his sharp eye,"_ Harris continued. _"We modified the data he sent before it got to Starfleet Medical, of course. It would be very awkward if Starfleet officially discovered such an operation."_

"You did what?" Archer barked, enraged. "That data –"

_"– was the only substantial proof of your claim, yes. But it makes little difference. You wanted permission to search for Malcolm longer; now that you know he came to us willingly, you have no cause to search at all."_

"You haven't done your research on me very well. I'm not going to stop looking for Malcolm just because you claim he went willingly. As far as I'm concerned, he was kidnapped."

Harris looked entirely unconcerned. _"Suit yourself, Captain. You will not find him. He is long gone from that little planet you're still searching. He's far out of your reach – and mine, for that matter. Not even I could get him back now."_

"Where is he?"

_"If I told you that,"_ Harris said reproachfully, _"I would risk starting an interstellar war."_


	5. Chapter 5

Archer lowered his throbbing head into his hands and wondered, for at least the twentieth time in the last hour, what the hell he was supposed to do now. After his obscure comment about an interstellar war, Harris had refused to answer further queries and shortly terminated the link, which had yielded the promised result. There was no record, anywhere, of a communications log. Archer had spent the better part of an hour searching and could find no sign that his entire conversation with the mysterious agent had been anything but purely imaginary. It hadn't been, of course, he knew that; but proving it would be a different matter and would probably cast doubts on his mental health and, at the very least, upon his fitness for command.

He considered his options.

In four hours, the Enterprise was scheduled to depart this wretched little planet and head for a rendezvous site with a Vulcan vessel carrying his new Tactical Officer. Reed's body – or rather, the body of Reed's clone – would be transferred to the Vulcan vessel for transportation back to Earth.

That had given Archer a fleeting glint of hope. If the clone's body was brought back to Earth, then surely Starfleet medical would detect the genetic anomalies upon examination…common sense had chimed in a moment later, crushing that hope with the reminder that if the Section had destroyed evidence once, they would not hesitate to do so again. Archer was under no illusions that the clone's corpse would reach Earth in any kind of examinable state, if it reached Earth at all.

The rendezvous was in nine days, which gave Archer exactly that long to figure out what to do next. Although he didn't know to what extent he could trust Harris's claims, he was at least adequately convinced that Reed was no longer on this planet. He felt no compunctions, therefore, in leaving it, and because he had no clues as to where to begin a search for his missing officer, he had no good reason, even in his own judgement, not to make for the assigned location. It was only after the rendezvous that his course of action became unclear.

Therein lay the greatest problem. Not only could he not convince Gardner that Reed was still alive or that Harris had been somehow involved in this debacle, but even if he should decide to go against orders to search for Reed, he had absolutely nothing to go off of. In addition, he had the uneasy feeling that his recent conversations with Gardner had not endeared him to the Admiral, and the possibility of being relieved of command should he show any further signs of disobedience weighed heavily on Archer's shoulders. Removed from the captaincy, his chances of locating Reed would become even slimmer.

Under the circumstances, Archer had to admit to himself, the likelihood of ever seeing Reed again was close to zero.

He briefly considered the idea of taking the Enterprise straight back to Earth, rendezvous be damned, and bursting into Starfleet Medical directly, with the clone's body in tow. While appealing, the thought didn't pan out on analysis. It was unthinkable that Section 31, based on the nature of its work, wouldn't have infiltrators in Starfleet Medical. Any real information about the clone would be instantly and easily suppressed or destroyed; and that was assuming Archer could even get the body into Starfleet headquarters. Every ship in the system would be hunting him down on suspicion of madness or treason long before he reached Earth. At best, he'd be discharged from Starfleet altogether; at worst, incarcerated. As vindicating as his idea was, it stood no chance of success.

The fact was that between them, Harris and Gardner had him very effectively backed into a corner. Archer massaged his aching temples gently. He didn't like being backed into corners, and part of the reason he'd had some success as Captain of the Enterprise revolved around exactly how proficient he was at removing himself from such tight spots. Unfortunately, this particular corner seemed to have more walls than he did ideas.

Beyond even that was the fact that Reed had left of his own accord. Archer hadn't needed Harris's confirmation to lead him to that conclusion. Reed's loyalty had been suspect since he had first lied about the Klingon weapons signatures, and the circumstantial evidence available was more than enough to lead Archer to believe that his absence was voluntary.

Archer tried to analyse his reasons for wanting to pursue Reed. Surely it was his duty as a Starfleet officer to retrieve a missing crew member; but according to Starfleet, Reed was officially dead, and with that death had also died Archer's legal responsibility as his commanding officer. Regardless of what Archer knew, he couldn't legitimately go after Reed under the pretence of Starfleet's authority.

Concern for Reed's safety and wellbeing, then? Certainly it was a major consideration. But, once again, if he had left voluntarily, then by doing so the Lieutenant had given unspoken consent to be exposed to whatever dangers he might potentially face at Harris's hands.

Unhappily, Archer had to admit that at least a considerable element of his intense desire to find Reed was a combination of anger and the betrayal he felt. He wanted to see Reed's face when he realised just how badly he'd screwed up; and he wanted to know _why_ he'd done it. Why, after swearing his loyalty in no uncertain terms?

Even to Archer, those didn't sound like good reasons to disregard direct orders and launch off on a wild goose chase that would inevitably yield no results.

Besides, he told himself, he apparently didn't know Reed nearly as well as he'd thought. Perhaps everything he'd ever known about the man was a carefully crafted façade. Would he even care about what he had done, about the trust he had broken? If Harris was to be fully believed, then perhaps not.

Archer groaned softly. He wished he could call upon Tucker or T'Pol for help, but he already knew what T'Pol's answer would be – that it was, under the circumstances, illogical to attempt further search – and the days when he could confide in Tucker had waned. That was his own fault, of course; he'd allowed the Expanse to change him. He'd compromised his morals and grown more ruthless, far more prepared to pull rank at the slightest provocation. He'd steadily driven Tucker away and their friendship was now extremely shaky at best, especially with his recent unwarranted sharp words to the engineer. In any case, this was a decision no one but he could make. And, at least for the moment, he had little choice in the matter.

Sometimes, Archer mourned, the right thing to do…was also the wrong thing.

He ran a hand through his hair to smooth it before walking out onto the bridge. Alpha shift was on again – he wondered if they'd ever left. By the acute weariness in all the faces except T'Pol's, he doubted that any of them had been off the bridge for more than a few hours in the last two days.

"T'Pol, recall the search parties." He spoke softly. His mouth felt dry and numb. "Travis, lay in a course for the rendezvous point with the Vulcans and prepare to break orbit. Hoshi, please open a ship-wide channel." He walked over to the communications array and waited for her nod of confirmation.

"Crew men and women of the USS Enterprise, this is your Captain, Jonathan Archer, speaking." He had never been so formal in an announcement before. "I am sure by now you have heard many rumours concerning an attack on a senior officer. I regret to inform you that Lieutenant Malcolm Reed has died of injuries sustained from an encounter with a semi-intelligent species on the planet we are currently orbiting. Our efforts to investigate his death have been unsuccessful. We have been unable to locate any members of that species. Later this evening I will be sending a written memorandum detailing the circumstances and our efforts more fully. I will also provide details to several temporary changes in the chain of command.

"Starfleet command has ordered us to rendezvous in nine days with a Vulcan vessel, which will bring us a replacement for the position of Tactical Officer and transport Lieutenant Reed's remains back to his family on Earth. We will break orbit within the next three hours.

"I appreciate your continued service in this difficult time. Please do not hesitate to reach out to one another to provide and receive support. If you require temporary relief from duty, please coordinate a replacement through your chain of command; again, you will receive clarification on that very soon. However, I must stress the importance of maintaining efficiency and readiness. I'm sure you all know that Lieutenant Reed would say the same thing." The words tasted bitter in Archer's mouth. Who was he to say what Reed would have thought or said? Clearly, he was no judge of that. "Thank you for your attention. In thirty seconds, we will commence a moment of respectful silence in honour of Lieutenant Reed. All non-critical systems on the ship will power down for sixty seconds. Please use this time to remember him and reflect on his honourable service and sacrifice.

"Archer out."

He nodded at T'Pol to begin the power-down sequence. The comfortable hum of the Enterprise faded slightly and the lights flicked out, leaving the bridge illuminated only by the faint lights of dimmed critical systems controls running on emergency power.

Archer thought about Reed as he had first met him, reserved yet eager. How much of that had been real? Had he known, even back then, that he was simply loaning himself to the Enterprise? He thought of all the times he'd seen Reed sitting at the tactical station, just waiting to set off some fireworks if any impudent alien should fix its sights on the Starfleet vessel as a prize. He thought about Reed's fierce devotion to the crew. He remembered how Reed's staff had always talked about him – joking about him, occasionally, but only ever with respect and admiration in their eyes.

He thought about Reed's pale face as he lied about the weapons signatures, hanging grimly onto his deception even when he knew he was caught. He thought of his own abhorrent verbal attack using Reed's family. How much of that reaction had been feigned? For that matter, how much of what Reed had told him about himself and his family was even true? Was anything the man had ever said more than another layer of paint on the mask of his identity? He thought of the last time he'd seen Reed, requesting to join the away team as if it were the most natural thing in the world. What if Archer himself had suspected then that something was amiss? What if he'd simply refused the request?

The lights flicked back on, making Archer blink. The Enterprise's familiar hum swelled back to its normal level. Archer raised his head and straightened. Beside him, Sato sat rigidly upright, her posture the image of Starfleet professionalism. Tears ran unchecked down her face. Archer couldn't even bring himself to offer consolation. How could he, when anything he said would ring hollow in his own ears?

_Why, Malcolm?_

He would hunt to the ends of the galaxy if he had anything to go on. But at least for the moment, his search was dead in the water.

* * *

Reed did not resist as he was propelled roughly through the Romulan ship by two guards. There was no point whatsoever in struggling. Even supposing he did escape, there was nowhere to run. His mind still reeled with Harris's betrayal. More than hatred for Harris, he felt anger at himself. He should have known that the agent would sell him out eventually. He had seen it happen before – not quite so blatantly, granted, but he still should have known better than to think Harris really intended to send him on a legitimate mission after so many years without re-training. But he hadn't. He'd been gullible. Harris had called and Reed had come running like a dog at its master's bidding, blind to the danger and deception at work, ignoring his greater loyalty to Archer because…why? Why had he broken his word to the Captain?

Reed tried to tell himself that he hadn't had a choice, but it wasn't true. Harris had offered no choice, but that didn't mean there had not been a choice to make.

_You were protecting yourself,_ Harris had said. _You haven't changed. You thrive on deception._

Reed had been blindfolded before stepping out of the airlock. It seemed a meaningless action; he was their prisoner, with essentially no chance of escape, and if Keyar's words to Harris were to be believed, anything he did see wouldn't be of much use. Probably the Romulans intended to leave him with permanent brain damage when they were done with him, if they left him alive at all. He did not trust Keyar's assurance to Harris that he would be kept alive. Rather than a security precaution, the blindfold was most likely a method of intimidation, the first of many steps to subjugate his will. Covering his eyes wasn't going to work, Reed told himself with false confidence. He wasn't worried by not seeing where he was going.

He tried to pretend that he wasn't afraid of what would come next, either.

His skin crawled with cold he was dropped unceremoniously into a seated position on hard, chilly metal. Tight straps secured him around the ankles, waist, and wrists. He had been tied down entirely too often in the last several days, Reed thought grimly. He felt hard hands probing the inside of his elbow, and before he could ascertain what was being done there came the sharp prick of a needle. A blood draw? If so, it seemed to last a long time. In the darkness of the blindfold, Reed was unable to judge whether or not he was growing dizzy from loss of blood. He also had no way to mark time, which was even more disconcerting. When he started counting out the seconds by tapping the fingers of the arm not being milked for blood on the side of the chair, his forefinger was seized without warning and bent backwards far enough to make him gasp with pain.

The Romulans did not speak to him. He heard occasional snatches of conversation, but they did not wear the translators that Keyar had used to communicate with Harris, and as a result the words were meaningless. There were times when he thought some of their words were directed at him, or were at least about him, but he never had the chance to respond. Always the risk of speaking unsolicited was too great. He knew better than to set himself a precedent of speaking before the Romulans. If he spoke to them once he would surely speak again. Better to hold himself to a policy of silence and hope that he could still enforce it under interrogation.

He wondered what Harris expected of him. Surely Harris would not have handed him over if he'd thought Reed capable of giving up any information he didn't want in the hands of the Romulans. On the other hand, what if he had simply expected Reed to resist – either from loyalty to his handler, or out of principle? Reed doubted that. Harris never left anything to chance, and it was clear he no longer placed the same trust in Reed that he once had.

On the other hand, Reed's distrust of the Romulans ran deeper even than the last few hours? minutes? days? in their custody had fostered. The Romulan Star Empire had threatened to destroy the Enterprise once, and it was a particularly unpleasant memory for Reed because he'd been the one pinned to the outside of the starship's hull by a Romulan mine. In fact he'd pulled out his air hose in an effort to force Archer to take the Enterprise to the safety provided by warp speed.

_You've been manipulating Archer all along,_ he could almost hear Harris saying.

Perhaps it was because of his association between the Romulans and a threat to the Enterprise that Reed wanted to resist. It was ridiculous to think that whatever information he divulged or refused to would have any direct, immediate impact on the Enterprise, but the thought of giving his captors whatever information they sought felt like a violation of the trust Archer and the crew of the Enterprise had placed in him.

How ironic. As if he hadn't already violated that trust beyond any redemption.

The metal chair moved, startling Reed. He felt the back slowly lowering into a lying position, and with no visual perspective it felt like he was being arched painfully backward long before the adjustment stopped. The arms of the chair slid down and the leg support lifted, effectively converting the chair into a table. He felt it moving, or imagined he did. Silence fell among the Romulans. Reed felt his heart beating double time from both blood loss and the renewed surging of adrenaline. What was happening now? A sharp prick in the inside of his elbow alerted him that the needle had been removed.

The blindfold was pulled away, letting in light that pricked painfully against Reed's eyes, which had become unused to any illumination. He could not at first open his eyes beyond a slit. He saw and felt the shadow of someone moving close to his head, and a hypospray was discharged into his neck.

He knew immediately that he had been drugged in some way. Reed winced at the alienness of the sensation, for it was like nothing he had ever received in a medical facility or elsewhere. His pulse increased and he found himself panting for breath. This time, the symptoms were not primarily due to fear. He gripped unsuccessfully at the flat metal surface beneath his hands in a vain effort to alleviate the sense that he was falling. The green tint to the light around him lent an ethereal touch to his surroundings.

"Can you understand me?"

One of the Romulans was speaking to him in English. It took Reed several heartbeats to process the words. He found it immensely curious to hear his own language in such a foreign place, and gaped blankly up at the alien face. A hand slapped roughly against the side of his head, prompting a volley of angry protests in the Romulan language from the English-speaking voice. Reed understood from the Romulan's instant switch between languages that it was actually speaking English rather than using a translator. He wondered where it had learned a human language. From the Section, perhaps? Reed's thoughts grew confused, distracted by the sting on his face where he had been struck. It had felt a dull blow initially, but whether because of the drug or some other cause, he now felt that he was being pricked sharply with a host of invisible pins.

"Do you know where you are?"

The Romulan was back. At least, Reed supposed it must be a Romulan. He was growing less certain of that with every word of English that it spoke. Maybe this was a human in disguise. Maybe it was one of Harris's agents testing him. Reed's understanding of the situation was slowly dissolving. He tried to focus his mind. Was this an interrogation? He was being questioned. He was tied. Harris? He had seen the agent recently, he knew. Some training exercise of the Section's devising? He pulled tentatively at his bindings, but they held firm and after a few seconds of numbness his tugging brought to life the same sharp pricking pain that was just beginning to fade from his face.

A bright light flashed directly into Reed's eyes and he recoiled away from it until his eyelids were forcibly pried open to allow the unwelcome intrusion of light. He heard voices discussing him and imagined he could almost understand them. They were speaking English, surely? Why could he not grasp their meaning? Perhaps it was Phlox and Archer, having a grim consultation about his health. Keeping their voices down so he couldn't hear and interject. Why was he in Sickbay? Had he been injured?

"I'm fine, Captain," he told the shadowy Archer. "There's nothing wrong with me." He had difficulty hearing his own voice. Phlox came to the side of the bed.

"Can you understand what I'm saying?"

He spoke in an odd accent and didn't seem to have heard or understood his patient. Reed was struck with the sudden impression that he was the one speaking unintelligibly, not the Doctor and the Captain. He made an effort to regain coherence.

"Yes."

"Do you know what's happening to you?"

"I'm fine," Reed told him in puzzled annoyance. "Let me go to the bridge."

"You aren't on your ship."

What an odd thing to say. Reed blinked slowly up at the figure above him. It wasn't Phlox. The face was different: smoother, more Vulcan, with a heavy ridge across the forehead. This was all too strange.

"Who are you?"

Even he could tell that the words did not come out as he intended, but rather as a stream of disjointed syllables that made no more sense to him than to the creature looking down at him. Not-Phlox looked up and said something in a different language to the others in the room. Reed rolled his head to the side to see who he was talking to. The greenish light was enough to see by, but a pale mist obscured Reed's vision. He couldn't make out the figures.

"Please," he tried again. "Just let me go to the bridge."

There was sound, and the touch of something on his face. Reed was too confused and disoriented to react. He was falling again, falling into a fog that blotted out both sound and sight.

* * *

"Yew can't do this, Cap'n."

Tucker glared across the ready room table at Archer with anger born of desperation. He'd been horrified to hear the Captain announce over the ship-wide intercom that Reed was dead, when he knew so much to the contrary. Archer had shortly afterward summoned him, along with T'Pol and Phlox, into the ready room.

"It's not up to me." Archer looked extremely weary.

"Cap'n, Malcolm's alive! Yew can't just – leave him!"

"What would you have me do?" Archer snapped. "Ignore Admiral Gardner's direct orders and start a search – where? Where would you suggest we start looking?" He dropped his head into his hands as if the sharp reply had drained the last of the energy out of him.

"The Captain is correct," T'Pol interjected. "We have no evidence of where Lieutenant Reed is. Trying to search for him would be illogical."

"That's not all," Archer said, shooting a grateful glance at his First Officer. "I believe Lieutenant Reed's departure was not involuntary."

"What d'yew mean?" Tucker was incensed. "Are yew accusin' him of desertion?"

"Yes," Archer said simply, taking the wind from Tucker's sails. He looked up at his three senior officers. "I'm sure you all remember what happened back when we had to do the high-warp transfer with Commander Tucker – or at least, you've heard rumours," he added in Phlox's direction. The Denobulan nodded.

"Yew put Malcolm in th' brig," Tucker said, a hint of accusation in his tone.

"I did." Archer sighed. Even now, he still wondered if it had been the right thing to do. He'd been too angry at the time to get a proper explanation, which Reed had seemed unwilling to give anyway. "Lieutenant Reed lied to me about the weapons signatures found on the remains of the Rigelian ship that took Phlox from Earth. He knowingly hid the fact that they were Klingon."

Tucker looked thrown off guard. "But…why?"

"I wish I could explain his motives," Archer said grimly. "I can only tell you that he acted on the orders of a man named Harris, a former employer of his. I allowed Lieutenant Reed to retain his position provided he never again contact Harris. He agreed and pledged his loyalty to Starfleet." _To me_. "I took him at his word because he had never lied to me before." _That I know of._ "Apparently I should not have. Trip, when you told me that an encrypted communication had been made from his computer, I immediately suspected Harris. I confronted Gardner about Harris." That hadn't been his most brilliant move. "He claimed not to know anything about him. Then Harris contacted me directly."

Archer met Tucker's eyes squarely. "Malcolm left willingly, Trip."

"Yer gonna believe the word of this Harris person?" Tucker demanded.

"Goddammit Trip, _think_ about it," Archer growled. "He asked to go on the away mission. He intentionally let himself become separated from the rest of the team. Does that sound like coincidence?" He paused, frustrated by how weak his arguments sounded when spoken. He knew Reed had left voluntarily; but, spoken aloud, his evidence sounded unconvincing. "I believe what Harris said. Malcolm disobeyed orders and lied to me once. I don't find it so implausible that he did it again."

"Well I do," Tucker started hotly, but T'Pol spoke over him.

"Commander, whether Lieutenant Reed left willingly is a largely immaterial question. It is impossible to attempt a search when we have no evidence whatsoever to suggest where he may be."

Archer disagreed about Reed's voluntariness being irrelevant, but he needed all the support he could get. "Another thing you're forgetting, Trip – if I disobey Gardner's direct orders, even for what I think is a good reason, I'll be relieved of command. Then there's even less chance of finding Malcolm, because even if some evidence of where he went did come to light, we couldn't pursue it. I can't just commit mutiny on the off chance that we'll find one person in an entire galaxy, with no idea where to begin looking."

Archer could tell that Tucker still disagreed, but some of the fight had gone out of him. "But we can't just abandon him."

"Commander, we are not 'abandoning' anyone," T'Pol said. "I am quite sure that if any new evidence surfaces, Captain Archer will find a way to pursue it. However, for the moment, he is making the only possible choice."

"If you have a better suggestion, I'd love to hear it," Archer added to Tucker, more needlingly than was perhaps entirely warranted. The engineer didn't answer.

"None of what we've discussed leaves this room," Archer said. "Is that understood? No one outside of the four of us is to know that Malcolm is still alive."

There was a muted agreement from around the table. "Very well. You're all dismissed."

He lowered his face into his hands, exhausted, as they left. Phlox hung back.

"Captain, are you well?"

Archer raised his head slowly. "I'm fine, Phlox. Why?"

"You seem unusually irritable," the doctor said. "I understand this is a stressful time. I'm sure T'Pol would be willing to take command for a day or two if you require a short leave."

'Stressful' didn't begin to cover it. Archer shook his head, knowing that relinquishing command at a time like this, even temporarily, was out of the question. "I'm just tired," he said dismissively.

* * *

Reed did not know when he had woken, and for a while he was not even sure if he had.

He could hear nothing. Something malleable and slightly itchy was wrapped around his face: he was blindfolded again. He was in some very small space, and the walls crushed in on him oppressively. He was folded into a painfully cricked ball. The air was moist and stale, warm with his body heat.

Reed felt carefully around with his hands – as far as he could move them, which was not much – and encountered the ceiling of the compartment scant inches above his head. It crushed down on his shoulder, holding him in his awkward hunched position. He tried to readjust, but the small box was too cramped and the inability to move sent bright jolts of terror through him.

Reed forced himself to remain still. _Don't struggle. Relax._ He panted shallowly, the narrow walls curling him up and preventing him from taking a deep breath. Had the walls grown closer in the last few minutes? Were they slowly crushing in on him? In a panic he wriggled one hand up to his face and clawed at the cloth wrapped around his head until it came off. He opened his eyes.

Complete blackness greeted his sight. It was as if he had not removed the blindfold at all. Reed blinked several times, feeling his eyelids move but unable to notice any visual difference. He moved his fingers directly before his eyes and saw nothing. Had he been blinded? Blind and left to die in a slowly crushing chamber with the air going bad around him. Reed heard a strange sound, like a low groan, and it took him far too long to realise the source of the sound was himself.

He was panicking. That would do absolutely no good.

He still had his hearing, he reminded himself. He managed to get a hand against his face once more and could find no aberrations in the skin around his eyes. Nor did they hurt, as he imagined they should if they had been injured. Most likely his eyes were fine and it was just very dark. The walls were not closing in, he told himself firmly. It was his mind playing tricks on him because he couldn't see.

He realised he was tense and shaky, covered in a cold sweat. With a physical effort, he began to relax every muscle in turn, starting with his feet and concentrating on the task. When he had finished he was slightly calmer, though his heart still beat a wild tattoo inside his ribcage.

His back and neck ached abominably with the forced cricked position. Cautiously, Reed tried to adjust to a more comfortable position. There was no space to do so. The suppressed movement triggered an overwhelming urge to struggle, instantly undoing the relaxation he had forced on himself. Reed gave up the effort to get more comfortable and started the relaxation technique over again.

"It's just a meditation exercise," he said softly, aloud. His voice sounded hollow and scared in the narrow space, but it reassured him of at least one of his senses.

He settled his breathing into a pattern. In four counts, hold four counts, out four counts, hold. Repeat. He continued until he had evened his breathing out enough to calm his mind out of provoking the feeling of suffocation.

"Just a new kind of training," he told himself. The sound of his own voice was just the slightest bit comforting, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of the Enterprise. Somewhere, they were looking for him. Archer would not give up.

_Archer thinks you're dead._

Reed forced the thought away, arguing back against it. Maybe the clone's body hadn't been found. Maybe it had, and had somehow prompted suspicion. Maybe the Enterprise had picked up traces of the Klingon vessel and had pursued it.

_There's no one coming._

The darkness disoriented him and he shut his eyes to block it out. Now that he was making an effort to think, Reed could feel the aftereffects of some intoxicating substance in his mind. It was difficult to maintain any thought. He could distantly remember Harris telling Keyar _I'd like to get back whatever is left_, but the memories of green light and blurred faces that assailed him when he tried to construct what had happened afterward remained distant. Beyond an understanding that he must be in the custody of Romulans, he didn't know where he was or what had been done to him.

Reed fixed his mind as firmly as he could on the Enterprise. His ship – it would come for him. Wouldn't it?

It had to.


	6. Chapter 6

Tucker stood by the airlock at which the Vulcan ship was currently docking. He felt stuffed and strange in his dress uniform. It had been so long since he'd worn it that he had almost forgotten how unpleasant it was in comparison with the pliable fabric of his normal duty uniform.

He wasn't sure why Archer had been so adamant about their little welcoming party being such a formal occasion. If it was out of feigned respect for Reed's 'remains,' which were to be transferred to the Vulcan ship, then Tucker thought that was an absurd bit of illogic. The body wasn't really Reed's, but even if it had been, the last thing the pragmatic Tactical Officer would have wanted was for the senior staff and crew to dress themselves up in ridiculous starched shirts that absolutely precluded the possibility of getting meaningful work done. More likely Archer's intent was to make a professional first impression for the benefit of the Vulcans and the new Tactical Officer. Tucker already disliked Reed's replacement, though he hadn't even met the man. He raised a hand to tug discontentedly at the edge of the overly-tight, itchy collar. Archer caught his eye disapprovingly and Tucker stared back unabashed, refusing to give into the sensation of being rebuked for fidgeting in church.

Hearing the seal of the airlock disengage, Tucker dropped his hand quickly as the whole party turned to watch. The door slid open to admit two Vulcans and an Andorian. As the captain exchanged pleasantries with the Vulcan captain – pleasantries which the Vulcans clearly considered unnecessary and which Archer had never been the type to enjoy either – Tucker studied the Andorian with open interest. He'd heard that the new crew member was not human. One of the first non-humans out of Starfleet Academy, in fact. Accustomed as Tucker was to having T'Pol working amongst the crew, and to seeing other aliens on the Enterprise for various sundry reasons, it was nonetheless strange to see an alien dressed in the familiar blue uniform of Starfleet, complete with maroon piping and Lieutenant pips on the collar.

The Andorian, like most of his species, was not particularly tall. His skin was a pleasing shade of light blue that carried the faintest hint of green where it was in shadow. Dark eyes looked calculatingly back at the welcoming party, so that Tucker felt obliged to continue his scrutiny more subtly. The Andorian's antennae, protruding from a head of neatly-kept white hair, were upright but relaxed, the tips curving slightly forward. One of the antennae was noticeably shorter than the other. Tucker wondered if it was growing back, as Shran's had, after some traumatic amputation. Tucker had heard that much of an Andorian's body language communication could be understood by looking at its antennae, but he would have to leave the nuances of such interpretation up to Sato.

At that moment, realizing that Archer's discussion with the Vulcans might last several minutes – they had turned to the topic of delivering Reed's 'remains' back to Earth, and Tucker noted Archer's pained expression with little sympathy: how much of that was a façade? – Sato herself took the initiative and greeted the Andorian Lieutenant in his own language. The newcomer looked startled, then his antennae curved slightly inward in apparent pleasure as he responded. The two spoke briefly in the alien tongue. Then, as if remembering the presence of others, the Andorian turned suddenly to Tucker, T'Pol, and Ensign Tanner.

"Forgive me," he said in barely-accented English, accentuating the words with an incline of the head almost like a tiny bow. Tucker felt an upwelling of resentment, because although he had never seen Reed do anything similar, it seemed such a Reed-like thing to do that he couldn't help the irrational sullenness. "It was rude of me not to speak so all could understand. I am Lieutenant Covan."

He shook hands with all of them. He had a firm grip, Tucker noticed distastefully. Ordinarily he liked people whose handshakes didn't feel like holding a dead fish, but in this case he was looking for reasons to dislike the Andorian and his inability to immediately find any was making him cross. Sato seemed pleased with the new addition.

"Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Lieutenant," T'Pol said. She had not greeted the Vulcans with Archer and evinced no desire to do so. "I am Sub-Commander T'Pol, First Officer of this vessel. This is Commander Tucker, our Chief Engineer; Ensign Sato, our Communications Officer; and Ensign Tanner, our acting Head of Security and Tactical Officer."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Covan said to Tanner. "I regret that it is not under better circumstances."

"It can't be helped, sir," Tanner answered unsmilingly. Tucker was pleased to see that Tanner, at least, seemed to share his reservations. The Andorian's antennae retreated slightly at the chilly reception.

"I look forward to meeting the rest of the team," he tried again. Tucker almost scowled. The _team_? Covan had been on the Enterprise only a few minutes, and already he felt comfortable enough to refer to his soon-to-be staff as 'the team'?

"I think you'll find the department staff very competent," Tanner responded coolly. Tucker made a mental note to buy the man a drink at the earliest convenience.

"I'm sure I will. I understand that Lieutenant Reed kept them very well trained."

As if sensing the slightly murderous resentment emanating from Tucker and Tanner, Sato hurried to intervene.

"How was your journey, Lieutenant? I trust it wasn't too long."

"Not at all." The Andorian lowered his voice confidentially. "I do hope, however, that the Enterprise has cuisine slightly more suited to my palette."

"You didn't enjoy the Plomeek broth?" Sato asked innocently. The two seemed to share an inside joke.

"I'm afraid it's not quite the same as the cabbage soup I'm used to."

"Not to worry," Sato assured him. "I'm sure we can find something suitable for you. And if not, Doctor Phlox is a connoisseur of some of the more exotic alien delicacies. He will surely have something that fits your tastes."

"I look forward to it, Ensign."

Finishing his conversation, Archer came over to the others, leaving the Vulcans waiting silently.

"Lieutenant Covan, I'm Captain Archer. Welcome to my ship." Archer looked tired, but if he shared Tucker's discomfort with Reed's replacement he did not show it.

"Thank you, Captain. It's an honour to be a part of this mission."

"Where was your last station?" Archer asked, visibly trying to show interest in the newest member of his crew. Tucker suspected the captain wanted nothing more at this moment than to crash in bed for a few hours.

"Jupiter Station," the Andorian replied. Archer nodded.

"Yes, of course. I believe Admiral Gardner mentioned that. You come very highly recommended by him, by the way."

"I will do my best to live up to those recommendations, sir."

"Not right away, I'm afraid. Our ship's doctor needs to perform a medical examination on you first. We don't have much experience with Andorian physiology, and he'd like to get a baseline. Hoshi, would you show the Lieutenant to Sickbay and to his quarters afterward?"

"Of course."

Tucker watched them leave, already speaking in Andorian again. _To his quarters._ To _Reed's_ quarters, really. Archer recalled his wandering attention.

"Commander, I'd like you and Ensign Tanner to arrange for Lieutenant Reed's body to be transferred to the Vulcan ship immediately," he said quietly. "Our Vulcan guests are on a time crunch."

"Yes, sir."

"We'll see to it, Captain," Tanner said sombrely. It occurred to Tucker that although the corpse waiting in Sickbay for transportation meant nothing to him personally, it held a great deal of meaning to Tanner and his staff, who wholeheartedly believed it to be Reed's body.

"Thank you." Archer sounded genuinely grateful. Perhaps he was relieved he didn't have to be a party to that farce as well. "You're dismissed."

* * *

"…it's almost like an entirely separate language. I always thought human nonverbal communication was quite intricate, but this is something entirely different. Did you know there are entire dialects of Andorian that rely only on antennae movements? Almost like sign language. And their poetry…"

Tucker barely listened to Sato's enthusiastic monologue about the complexities of Andorian communication and culture stemming from the aliens' antennae. He had tried to pay attention at first, but the topic – obviously inspired by Lieutenant Covan's recent arrival – was hardly one that he wanted to discuss. He resorted to nodding along, lost in his own thoughts.

"…and you're not even listening to me, are you?"

"Mm-hmm," Tucker nodded absently. Sato sighed.

"Trip."

"What?" Tucker looked up over his barely-touched plate of fried fish and potatoes. "Sorry, Hoshi."

"What's bothering you?"

"Nothing." Nothing he could explain to her, anyway. Archer's orders had been clear. Only he, Tucker, T'Pol, and Phlox were to know the truth of Reed's 'disappearance.' Tucker wondered how Sato would react if she knew.

"Sure. And I'm a Vulcan snowman." Vulcan's lowest temperatures were well above the freezing point of water. "It's about Covan, isn't it? You don't like him."

"I like him fine," Tucker protested.

"I'm a communications expert, Trip. I saw how you were looking at him – I thought you were going to strangle him for a minute there."

"I'm sure I'll get used to him."

"You didn't want Starfleet to replace Malcolm so soon," Sato guessed quietly.

"I know, it's not really fair to him," Tucker admitted. "It's just strange to see someone in Malcolm's place." _Especially while Malcolm's still alive._ But he couldn't say that.

"It's not fair to us, either," Sato pointed out gently. "None of this is fair. But we can't just stop the mission. You know Malcolm wouldn't have wanted that."

"These days I'm not sure what Malcolm would have wanted," Tucker said darkly, with a hint of bitterness that seemed to take Sato aback. How much of what he knew about Reed was true, and how much was a lie? Tucker hated himself for doubting Reed, then hated himself just as much for not taking the captain's word on the matter. All this had him so screwed up. Nothing was the way it should be. The Reed that Tucker knew would never desert or betray Archer and the Enterprise; but he already had once, and apparently had done so again. If only he could just _talk_ to Reed. Maybe there was an explanation, somewhere.

Mistaking his frustration for grief, Sato put a hand on his wrist. "I miss him too. I still catch myself thinking he's down in the Armoury. The number of times I've almost hailed Malcolm instead of Ensign Tanner…" she shook her head sorrowfully. "We all miss him. But he's gone, Trip. We have to move on."

_He's not dead!_ Tucker wanted to shout in her face. _He left, Hoshi! He left all of us to think that he's dead. And for what?_ For the orders of some mysterious former employer? Instead of shouting, Tucker forced himself to act along. It was surprisingly easy to portray his anger as sadness. Had it been this easy for Reed to act the part of something he was not? _He might not have been acting,_ Tucker insisted futilely to himself. _There's an explanation. There has to be._

"I know." He feigned emotion in his expression. "I'm sure I'll get used to Covan in time."

"That's right. Give it time." Sato squeezed his arm and gave him a sad smile. Uncomfortable with her sincerity, Tucker tried to steer the conversation away.

"What are you, the ship's counsellor?"

"Sometimes," Sato smiled, some of the grief fading from her expression. "Phlox and I split the work."

"On this ship, it's probably a full-time job," Tucker said wryly, drawing a short laugh.

"You're not wrong." She gathered up her plate, preparing to leave, but paused to look at him. "Are you okay?"

"Sure." Tucker smiled past the whirlwind of doubt and confusion in his mind. "Thanks, Hosh."

* * *

Trapped in the dark with no point of reference, Reed had no idea how long had passed. By now the cricks in his crunched spine and neck had developed into a fully-fledged torment. Despite the substantial pain, the greatest trial was something else entirely. In the darkness, there was only his own mind to occupy him. Every time his consciousness began to slip – though it was hard to tell in the darkness whether or not he was drifting – he heard noises, or thought he did. Was he intentionally not being allowed to sleep? Or was it he imagining the sounds? Or was this sleep after all, some horrible nightmare? The angry throb in his neck suggested it was not, but he couldn't know.

Pricks of light danced in front of his vision when he opened his eyes, as if his mind simply could not grasp that there was absolutely nothing to see. Reed moved his fingers and wrists in a vain effort to keep blood flowing through them. He had given up on his feet, which had passed through various stages of pins and needles and into aching numbness some indefinable time ago. Nevertheless, the discomfort of the cramped box did not seem so terrible anymore. Reed found that if he lay perfectly still and breathed lightly, the pressure of the close walls was less terrible.

At least, it would not have been terrible except that there was nothing to quiet his mind.

He closed his eyes so he could pretend that if he opened them he would see something. He wished someone would interrogate him, give him something to fight other than his own mind. Give him something to hate. Anger was strength. He couldn't hate Harris: the man had done no wrong by using him in the only way in which Reed was still useful. In the Section there was no right or wrong, there was only the mission. And Harris had followed that law to the letter.

If there was blame to be placed, it was on Reed. He had walked willingly into Harris's trap, betraying as he did everything that had become most valuable to him. He had turned his back on the Enterprise. On his crew. On his Captain. The ship and her crew had become his home, or at least the closest he'd ever thought he would have to a home. And what had it taken for him to abandon that? Only the beckoning whistle of a man he'd sworn never again to follow, and he'd come obediently to the master's call.

He'd thought himself better than Harris. He'd thought he could turn away from what he had become in the Section. But some choices could not be undone, however young and stupid you were when you made them. Sometimes naivety could not excuse actions. Some acts were unforgivable, or became so once their implications had played out into actuality.

He never should have left. His loyalty was to the Captain of the Enterprise, and no longer to the Section. But it was too late for that, wasn't it? Archer was light-years away, believing him dead. He would never know of his traitorous officer's repentance that came just too late to do any good.

All his life had been lived from one _too late_ to the next. He had never managed to learn that life didn't give second chances. Now he had run out of time.

There was water on his face. It felt cold against his skin. A thin, steady stream of water ran silently from somewhere above him. It trickled down around his nose and mouth, taunting him with its continuous flow as he first drank greedily and then choked it out when it didn't stop, when the stream became a river. The cold wetness pooled around his body and stole his air in the darkness. It kept coming, filling up the chamber.

The water lapped teasingly at his face, forcing him to lift his face to breathe. The only direction he could turn his head put his nose and mouth directly in the stream pouring down on him.

The water rose.

* * *

As the days and then weeks passed, Tucker found it appallingly easy to get accustomed to the new status quo on the Enterprise. It took about a week before stepping onto the bridge and seeing a blue-skinned face where Reed should have been no longer gave him a nasty jolt and the feeling that he'd stepped onto the bridge of the wrong ship, but eventually that too dissipated. To the engineer's infinite fury, the targeting scanners, which had plagued Reed incessantly since the very beginning of the mission, abruptly gave up the struggle and resigned themselves to the unfortunate business of functioning correctly under the hands of the Andorian Tactical Officer. Tucker never would have believed that a simple piece of equipment would anger him _by working correctly_, but there it stood. He scolded himself for his irrationality. Probably targeting scanners just needed to be broken in.

The Enterprise had entered a dry spell of space. It had been unusually long since they had encountered anything of note, from an M-class planet to a disgruntled alien. The timing, Tucker thought, couldn't have been worse. They all needed something to get their minds off Reed. Archer in particular seemed ready to go stir-crazy. Things had gotten so bad that they spent a full day studying an unusually-shaped piece of space rock which proved to have absolutely no strange characteristics at all beyond its outward shape. The science department had conducted test after test on the unoffending object, determined to find something wrong with it. They had even launched a full-scale plan to bring the entire thing aboard the Enterprise for further study – a feat which would have involved clearing one of the shuttle-bays and 'relocating,' according to their report, the wall of the aforementioned bay. T'Pol had promptly shot down the idea, probably astonished – if Vulcans could be astonished – at the bizarre persistence of her human colleagues in believing that the perfectly ordinary piece of rock could have 'useful scientific properties.' It had wasted the day, at any rate, and given them nothing in the end except a small amount of satisfaction for the Armoury staff when Archer had permitted Covan to blow it up with the super-charged phase cannons.

The new Tactical Officer was another reason why Tucker hoped to see some kind of action soon. He would never hope for the Enterprise to be attacked, of course, but he was curious to see how Covan would react under pressure. The Andorian seemed to be faring quite well as the head of his department. There had been none of the expected murmurs of discontent under the new leadership, or at least very few. Covan had made no attempt to change the protocols that Reed had put in place. Whether this was out of sensitivity or because he didn't have better ideas, Tucker wasn't sure. He knew which explanation he preferred. The transition from Tanner to Covan had to all appearances gone smoothly. The Lieutenant had already put his new staff through a few drills and training exercises, and reported in one of Archer's senior staff meetings that he was well pleased with their performance. But for all that he seemed to be an excellent officer insofar as the day-to-day life of the ship went, Tucker knew that things could change drastically once an actual crisis hit – and, devilish as the idea was, he rather hoped such a crisis would hit sooner rather than later. Nothing serious, of course, maybe just a random alien ship taking a few shots at them. At the very least, Tucker thought despairingly, that might give him _something_ to fix. The warp core persisted in running perfectly, and there was a limit to how long Tucker could legitimately spend crawling around in access tubes pretending that he was making important modifications.

It was illogical, Tucker knew, to attribute any of this to Reed's absence. Still, he couldn't help feeling that if Reed were here, something would have happened. From the unfortunate events during their shore leave on Risa to their last away mission, it seemed that there had been hardly a dull moment with Reed around. Probably that was just Tucker desperately wanting to do something, and had no rational basis, but the impression lingered. Not that he would necessarily want to repeat all of those experiences, particularly not the one on Risa – but the sheer boredom almost made him think fondly of that unfortunate night.

And yet everything had been so simple back then. The weight of deception and ulterior motives had not hung heavy in the air between them back then. Or perhaps it had, as far as Reed was concerned, and Tucker had never noticed. Perhaps the past always seemed cleaner in comparison with the present. Whatever the case, he would have given almost everything to have back the Enterprise's early days: back when everything had been so new and exciting. When each day was an experiment. Back when he and Archer had been the closest of friends, off on their dream mission together. Before the Expanse had twisted his old friend into a vindictive dictator and a politician who could rationalize absolutely anything. Back when his friendship with Reed had been uncomplicated. He'd enjoyed making fun of the Brit, who shot back with a razor-sharp wit and rarely took any real offense. Back before the Sulliban. Before the Xindi. Before the superweapon, and all the damage it had done both directly and vicariously, both to him and to others.

But there was no point in dwelling on that. Tucker had to admit that the encounter with the mysterious Anachron species, despite the near-tragedy of the event, had left him strangely excited about the possibility of time travel; but for the moment at least, that was still a far-off fantasy. It was not yet a viable solution to any such problems as the Xindi had caused, and because of the volatility of such an endeavour, it might never be. And so the grass remained greener in retrospect. Tucker was okay with that; it was the helplessness of knowing that Reed was still alive and out there somewhere, and that there was nothing he could do about it, that left him frustrated and discontent. There _was_ nothing he could do about it, though, or about the fact that the lack of anything substantial to do left him with far too much time for introspection. All there was left to do was to continue on; to pretend that Reed was dead and he himself was moving on; to will himself to believe that their mission out here was worth all it had cost them.

Sometimes, Tucker wondered if Reed had felt anything like this disillusionment as he walked the halls clothed in the professional veneer of an officer to cover the secrets he held.

* * *

Only the steady throb of Reed's heart told him that he was still alive. He had only that to separate reality from the images that his mind threw at him, all twisted up and snarled together with the sick taste of guilt.

He was still in the dark. The water had gone. It had taken something away from him when it went: the last of his sanity, perhaps. The spasms of his uncurled muscles were such that it had taken him a while to realise that he was not still in the cramped box.

His head ached sharply. A thousand needles, invisible in the dark, pressed into his skull from all sides. He thought he was imagining them until he tried to move and nearly put his eye out on one of the sharp spikes.

He thought he had been drugged. His whole body felt strange and limp, and it was more than the deep ache of stretched muscles that had grown unused to being stretched. Cold metal pressed against his skin on one side and thick, inflexible leathery straps on the other side. Between the two these held him upright. He would have fallen without them.

There were others in the room – Romulans, probably. He could sense the movements nearby. He felt little fear of them. The strange horror of the unknown hung over him like a shroud. The Romulans were known; they were not to be feared. It was something else entirely that brought clamminess into his icy hands.

The needles were doing something to his head.

He was sure of this without having any definite way of knowing. There was a strangely foreign sensation of mounting pressure inside his skull. His thoughts grew confused and scattered. He thought of a world that he had never really called home: a blue-green marble set in the great dark emptiness of space. He thought of a ship called Enterprise, and of the people on it. These things had gone distant with the unreality of drugged memory, brought clearer only in occasional fleeting snapshots. He could no longer be sure that any of the things he'd clung to so firmly at first – Tucker, the Enterprise, Captain Archer, Sato – had ever existed. The only thing he could depend on was the Romulans. He had seen their faces before they had stolen his eyesight with blackness; he remembered that. He heard their voices occasionally and it reassured him. The unknown words brought that one solid memory back into his mind. He could be certain of the Romulans even if they were the ones hurting him.

He wasn't at all sure that they had done this to him. The Romulan voice he heard more often than others was tight with worry. Were they concerned for him? The ides filled him with gratitude. Surely if they were doing this to him they would not be worried about him. Perhaps he was inventing it all in his mind, and they trying to save him. Perhaps none of it was real.

He wasn't fighting them anymore, wasn't trying to tell himself that someone would come for him. There was no one coming. Probably there had never been anyone to come. He had accepted that. He had accepted that he would die here, wherever 'here' was, and however he had gotten here. He had accepted it and yet it still gnawed at him with teeth of chilling fear because, although shaky logic told him otherwise, there was no end to what could happen to him in this shadowy void between imagination and truth. There were no finite bounds on the pain and terror he could experience before he died. It was not pain that he was afraid of so much as it was the fear. The fear turned his mind against him.

His mind did not seem to be under his control anyway. He saw things that he did not know: twin planets, one rusty brown and one pale, cloudy green. A home he had never set foot on. A family he did not have. These memories were not his own and he did not know where they came from.

Someone was screaming nearby and it was not him. He heard a great deal of shouting and felt movement all around him. He thought that among the voices he understood _turn it off, you are going to kill him_, but it could not have been about him. He was not dying. One of the Romulans was somehow terribly injured. It was still crying out. There was a sound of madness to its cries. Reed felt that in some way, though he did not know how, he was himself responsible for the Romulan's pain.

The needles pressing against his head scraped his skin and then were gone. There was light. Reed had not known he could still see. His eyes watered in protest at the sudden brightness, but he dared not shut them for fear of losing the light. After a time his vision cleared and he was able to see something of his surroundings. In front of him by some ten feet was a Romulan bound in a reinforced metal chair. Several Romulans were gathered around, two of them lifting a heavily-wired hemisphere of metal off of their companion's head. A helmet of some kind? Reed had no conception of what was happening. It was this bound Romulan that was screaming, though his cries were quickly fading to moans.

One of the other Romulans was angry, was demanding to know what had happened, and another was saying that something had failed. _The mind probe cannot fail_, the angry one insisted. Reed did not understand what they were talking about, but it was clear that something had gone terribly wrong and the Romulan now being released from its bindings had suffered the worst of the mishap. Reed grappled awkwardly to comprehend the situation and could not even begin to make sense of it. The confusion sickened him.

When one of the Romulans hyposprayed him into unconsciousness, it was a relief.


	7. Chapter 7

Reed did not know when exactly he had awakened, but he would rather have remained asleep.

His head was alive with pain and the alarming sensation of something crawling inside his skull. It precluded any rational thought, and at the same time seemed to heighten his awareness so that the slightest sensation of any kind was a torturous onslaught. Cold sweat slithered across his bare skin, contrasting strangely with the feverish heat that gripped his back wherever it stuck to the cruelly insulating leather beneath him. The slightest motion sent sharp spikes of agony into his forehead. He couldn't quite be sure that some outside force wasn't actually striking him in the head at every move.

Something cool and hard brushed against his neck and hissed as it discharged. Reed tried to pull away. His muscles refused to cooperate.

The crawling thing inside his skull wriggled and died, leaving only the faintest recollection that it had been there at all. The headache eased with the disappearance of the crawling sensation and he found he could breathe normally again, rather than chancing short gasps when he could bear the pain. A hand ghosted across his face, and he pulled instinctively away again. The throb in his skull worsened slightly, but no answering stab met his movement.

"Don't open your eyes yet," a voice whispered close by.

He wasn't planning on it. His eyes ached deeply and the idea of the slightest bit of light was abhorrent.

The pain had eased enough for his mind to slide shudderingly back into place, thoroughly rattled. Reed found he was able to think enough to realise that he had no idea what the hell was happening to him. Where was he? Nearby, he sensed motion. He'd heard a voice just a few seconds ago; who was it? Presumably someone who had more answers than he. It was difficult to imagine anyone having fewer answers.

"Phlox?" he slurred groggily. Speaking did not hurt as much as anticipated, which was a pleasant surprise.

"What?"

Automatically, he opened his eyes to see the speaker. Light struck at his eyes like a dagger and he groaned in pain.

"I said," the voice was impatient, and, he noticed for the first time, accented, "_don't_ open your eyes. Your eyes are very sensitive right now. Be patient."

His mind scrabbled clumsily for details. What was wrong with him? Was he waking up from surgery? Why would he have surgery? Had he been injured? Who was with him? The voice, and its accent, was unfamiliar to him.

He searched for a fixed point in his memory to start from. All he could manage to conjure was a vague recollection of shadowy figures moving against a backdrop of green light. The images didn't seem to make sense, though he couldn't say why. He had nothing concrete to contrast them with. Slightly panicky, he tried to find any recollection at all. A name? A place? Just a moment ago he'd said _Phlox_. He was able to put a face to the name – a faint memory of a ridged, alien face that was very familiar to him. He did not remember where he knew Phlox from.

Reed opened his eyes again, more cautiously, and though he had to squint, the light was bearable. In fact it was quite dim, he realised as he adjusted slowly to using his eyes. Motion flickered to one side, and he turned toward it to see a Romulan approaching. He jerked back reflexively and only by pure luck avoided falling off the leather-covered table he was on. The Romulan stopped.

"I'm not here to hurt you."

He hadn't thought that, exactly, but his heart was racing and adrenaline prickled uncomfortably at his stomach. But why? And how did he know so clearly that this was a Romulan? He looked around, disoriented by the strangeness. In the dimness he couldn't make out much of his surroundings.

"Do you know where you are?"

Reed looked back at the Romulan, feeling dazed and sick. "I – no. What happened? Where am I?"

"Don't worry. You will remember," the Romulan told him. "You're suffering from mild amnesia. It's quite common. You'll regain your memory soon."

This answered absolutely none of his questions. He sat up cautiously, swinging his legs over the side of the table. He had to fight a momentary wave of dizziness.

"Don't try to walk yet, Malcolm," the Romulan warned.

_Malcolm._ He was Malcolm, which answered a question that hadn't occurred to him yet. _I am Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of the starship Enterprise._ The words were hauntingly familiar.

"Where is the Enterprise?" What was the Enterprise? A starship, of course, hadn't he already told himself that? But what was its significance to him? _…of the starship Enterprise._ It was his ship. The Enterprise. Of course. "I want to speak to Captain Archer."

Jonathan Archer. And Phlox. Phlox was the doctor. A Denobulan. The random bits he could glean were slowly reassembling. Reed scolded himself nervously for his lapse of memory. The Enterprise was intimately familiar to him: it was his own ship. Of course he remembered it.

"Captain Archer isn't here. You are not on the Enterprise."

"Where am I? Who are you?"

"I am S'Trep, First Medic of the ship _Pritak_. You are in our medical bay."

"Why?" Reed groped for an explanation that seemed to hover just out of reach. "Where's Harris?" He had seen the man recently, he felt sure. That was a bad sign, but it could be a starting point for an explanation of what had happened to him.

"Harris?" S'Trep seemed unfamiliar with the name. "I do not know who you speak of." He held out a folded garment of heavy grey material. "Wear this. You may become chilled."

Reed realised only when the clothing was offered that he was, in fact, completely unclothed. He took the proffered garment hastily and put it on, holding the edge of the table to steady himself. It was similar to a hospital gown, loose-fitting and fastening down one side with three ties. The fabric was neither soft nor comfortable, but it was better than being naked.

"Harris brought me to your ship, didn't he?" Reed asked, drawing out the thoughts with difficulty.

"The one who brought you here?" S'Trep looked at him with a strange expression. Reed wasn't used to seeing any expressions on such a Vulcan-like face. It was disconcerting. "That one is long gone."

"I don't understand," Reed frowned uneasily. "Why? What happened?"

The expression became more distinct. S'Trep looked pitying.

"You will remember soon enough. You ought to rest now."

Reed's gut clenched uncomfortably. "What happened to me? Why am I here?"

The Romulan's mouth tightened into a thin line. "No more questions."

"I need to speak to Captain Archer," Reed said deliberately. Surely the Captain would have answers. "Please, will you help me contact him? Use the frequency 1247 alpha. I must speak with him."

He didn't really expect a reply, and he got none. S'Trep turned away without answering. Reed tried to follow him, but stumbled dizzily as soon as he relinquished the support of the table. He fell heavily onto his hands and knees. The Romulan hoisted him briskly upright with Vulcan-like strength and deposited him back against the table.

"Do you listen to nothing?" His tone was impatient. "Do not walk. Lie and rest. You will not recover if you slam your head on the floor!"

Chastened, Reed slid back onto the uncomfortable leather table and lay back, welcoming the relief from dizziness. His mind raced with questions, but he had been trained to take things as they came in hostage situations.

_Hostage situations?_ Reed disliked the way his mind seemed to dredge up the most random phrases and thoughts and dump them on him from time to time with no explanation. It was maddening. He wondered, briefly, if he was losing his mind, but dismissed the possibility without much consideration. If he was, there wasn't much he could do about it anyway, and if he wasn't then there was nothing to worry about. In any case, there was no point dwelling on the thought.

_Lie and rest_, S'Trep had said. Uneasily, Reed closed his eyes and was surprised by the sudden relief from the headache he hadn't realised was still there. He tried, with little success, to quiet his mind.

He did not have long to spend thinking about it. A door slid open nearby, letting in a flood of light that slapped Reed hard in the face as he sat up, startled. He squinted through the renewed pain in his head to see two Romulans wearing mottled grey uniforms enter.

"S'Trep!" one of them called as the other touched a control on the wall which brought the lights in the medical bay up to full brightness. Reed winced and raised his arm to block the glare. He heard S'Trep's hurried footsteps behind him.

"Why isn't the human tied?" the first of the two arrivals demanded. "You know it's dangerous, S'Trep."

"Come now," S'Trep protested in a scolding tone. "Surely you're not doubting my ability to defend myself against a drugged and barely-conscious human. He's no threat to me." The medic's voice sounded harsher than it had earlier. He seemed displeased with the intrusion into his territory.

"I'm sure Keyar would be pleased to know what liberties you've been taking with it." The second Romulan's voice was lower and smoother. Reed got the impression that this one was infinitely more dangerous than the first. "One might almost think you desired to help the human."

"Don't be absurd." Much of the bluster had gone out of S'Trep's voice. "I am only keeping it alive, as he asked. A job, I might add, which you seem determined to make me fail at!"

Reed peered through slitted eyes toward the three Romulans in time to see the one who had just spoken to S'Trep shrug indifferently. "Keyar paid a high price for it. He wants it alive only as long as it can be useful."

"Which I am beginning to believe it cannot be!" S'Trep shot back. "The mind probe failed. Would you condemn another of our crew to madness by trying again?"

"There are other ways to retrieve information," the first of the newcomers began.

"I am not even certain there is anything left in the human's mind to retrieve, even supposing the probe did function," S'Trep objected. "I have yet to ascertain the extent of the neural trauma he has suffered."

That sounded quite serious. Reed found that he could not bring himself to be as concerned as he ought to be. All this had a bizarre tint of unreality to it. Perhaps he was drugged, as S'Trep had said. He couldn't understand why the Romulans would speak so openly in front of him. For that matter, why would they speak English? The whole situation made little sense. Very likely he was lying in Sickbay under the influence of some drug or other of Phlox's. Probably he had been sick, or injured, and all of this was simply a fevered dream.

"That's not your job to ascertain," the Romulan with the silky voice said. "As you yourself said, your job is to keep the human alive. As it is my job to retrieve whatever information it possesses."

"It is also my job to care for the health of this crew," S'Trep said. There was a taste of fear in his words. "You cannot risk sending another probe operator to insanity because of a malfunction."

"There is nothing wrong with the probe. It was a freak occurrence."

"You don't know that," S'Trep insisted. "At least permit me to study the human's physiology further. Perhaps we may learn something about why the probe malfunctioned, so we may prevent another failure."

"And perhaps you may decide the human deserves a mercy killing."

"It is too dangerous," S'Trep said firmly. "I cannot allow you to carry through with this."

There was a dangerous silence. "I am acting under the orders of my superior officer," the other Romulan said at last in a very low, soft voice. "Do you intend to try to stop me, Medic?"

S'Trep shrank backwards, realising almost too late the peril he faced. "I do not," he managed, defeated.

"Very well."

S'Trep stood aside as the two Romulans advanced into the medical bay. Reed watched them uneasily as they approached. He wished the dream would end now. He disliked being in Sickbay, but he would rather be awake and under Phlox's eye than in the middle of this strange and disturbing fantasy.

The Romulans seized him under the arms and dragged him off of the leather table. Reed struggled against them instinctively until one of them struck him hard in the face with the butt end of a disruptor pistol. The pain and S'Trep's outraged cry of protest were all too real.

* * *

Unexpectedly, it was T'Pol who brought the first hope of something more than irregularly-shaped space rocks into Tucker's mind, during a senior staff meeting.

"I have been examining Vulcan star charts," she explained, displaying one on the computer monitor mounted on the wall. "We will soon enter a region of space that is not officially claimed, but which is controlled by the Orion Syndicate. As you know, they are an enemy of the Vulcan High Council. Several deterrent attacks have been conducted against them in recent years, with little success in halting their activities. I recommend extra security precautions while in this region."

"Wait a minute, T'Pol." Archer leaned forward. "I'm not planning on having anything to do with the Orions, especially if they can outgun Vulcan ships. Vulcan firepower is superior to ours."

"The failure of the attacks was not due to inferior firepower," T'Pol said stiffly. Her rigid posture indicated that she found the suggestion absurd. "Rather, it was due to an inability to locate the Orions in any significant numbers. They do not have an organized central government, Captain. They are a largely nomadic people composed of a number of smaller tribes, each of which operates under its own set of rules while maintaining a measure of connection to the Syndicate as a whole. Each tribal group lives off what it is able to pirate from vessels within its particular sphere of influence. Their chief industry is a slave trade to the worlds within this region."

"I can see why they're enemies of the Vulcan Empire," Covan said drily. Tucker understood what he meant. The planet Vulcan had a violent past, and before the teachings of Surak were widely adopted, slavery and other atrocities had been universally practiced across the world. Over time, the sage's teachings of peace and inner calm had become common law more than philosophy, and slavery and other barbaric customs had disappeared entirely and were punishable by death. So strong was the Vulcan abhorrence for such things that, as a united species, they had announced their absolute refusal to ally themselves or associate in any way with peoples that engaged in the trade of sentient beings.

Tucker happened to know that the Vulcan High Council was excellent at having closed eyes where there was substantial gain to be found. But a disorganized society with little to offer, which openly practiced the slave trade? He had to concede the point to the Andorian lieutenant. He could certainly see why the Orions were not in the good graces of the High Council.

"Indeed," T'Pol agreed, unamused as ever. "The Orions do not possess the technology to withstand Vulcan attacks. However, their loose structure and lack of central leadership makes them a difficult enemy to fight. They should pose little threat to the Enterprise, although they represent a powerful force within this realm of space."

"We're talking about an organisation with a price on my head," Archer objected. "The first time we ran into them, they crippled our weapons and took nine crew members, including yourself. How can you say they're not a threat?"

"That incident is what ultimately prompted the Vulcan High Council to take action," T'Pol said. "It was felt that the Orions' willingness to capture and enslave a Vulcan showed a dangerous disrespect for the High Council. As for the attacks, Captain, I did not say they were entirely unsuccessful. A great deal of infrastructure and ships were destroyed; enough to set the Orions back many years, as I understand. However, these attacks were considered failures because they produced no substantial effect on the slave trade within Orion territory."

Archer was frowning. "You're telling me the Vulcans have been at war with this species in the last few years? I find that a little hard to swallow. I've never heard of such a conflict."

T'Pol's expression faintly suggested bemusement at human naivety. "Captain, the Vulcan High Command does not report to Starfleet," she said delicately. "Sometimes in dealings with other species, discretion is considered prudent. There is much that Starfleet does not know about the actions of the High Council."

There was an uncomfortable silence. "I see," Archer said at last. "Still, I'm reluctant to take us into Orion territory after what we've seen of them before. Can we plot a course around them?"

"That would be inadvisable, Captain." T'Pol seemed undisturbed by the momentary awkwardness. "We are not far from the borders of Romulan space, and avoiding Orion territory will mean entering Romulan space. Alternatively, there is a route that would take us away from both the Romulans and the Orions. However, it would take approximately nine months at maximum warp."

"And given the choice between Romulans and Orions, you think the Orions are the less risky choice?"

"Indeed, Captain. Their technology is inferior to what you recall from our last encounter with them."

"Supposing I accept that the Enterprise is relatively safe from attack," Archer acquiesced. "Are there any security measures you recommend beyond normal?"

"Yes, Captain. Small or unarmed vessels are at great risk of capture. I recommend caution in the use of shuttle-pods. It may be prudent to entirely refrain from using them until we are out of Orion space."

Tucker didn't like the idea of entering Orion space at all. T'Pol's assurances about Orion capabilities were a bit too vague for his liking. He understood that she still maintained ties with contacts inside the High Council, and could not relay everything she knew to her human companions, but given recent events it made the engineer uncomfortable to think that another senior officer was withholding information. Archer's expression indicated that he felt likewise, but he kept his silence on the matter.

"I agree," he told T'Pol. "Let's avoid away missions for now. How long will it take to pass through the Orions' territory?"

"Approximately three weeks," T'Pol said, drawing a soft groan from Tucker. Covan shot him a sympathetic glance, which he stoically avoided. "Is there a problem, Commander?"

"No away missions, just when we're finally gettin' somewhere with M-class planets?" Tucker asked plaintively. "That's harsh, Cap'n."

Once, a long time ago, Archer would have laughed and agreed. He might even have come up with an idea to safely give the crew a day or two of shore leave. Now, he responded unsmilingly to Tucker's complaint.

"It's a necessary security measure. I'm in full agreement with T'Pol."

"I'll brief my staff, Captain. We won't be unprepared." Covan's antennae curved backward in anticipation. The antennae were almost exactly the same length now, Tucker noticed. He hadn't paid much attention since his initial impression of the Andorian, but it appeared that the damaged antenna had fully grown back.

"I trust not." Archer nodded approval. "Take whatever security measures you see fit, Lieutenant. T'Pol, please forward all pertinent information on the Orion Syndicate to Lieutenant Covan. If that's all, you're dismissed."

Archer rose as the rest of the staff began to file out, but beckoned to Tucker. "A word, please." When the others had gone he settled himself on the edge of the briefing room table.

"I know you're getting restless, Trip. So am I. I know it's hard to go this long without any action."

He seemed awkward with his own informal manner. Tucker watched him, curious as to where the line of thought was going.

"I just think it's better to err on the safe side," Archer explained. Tucker was reminded fleetingly of Reed's constant vigilance, almost to the point of paranoia. The last time they'd had 'any action,' they'd lost an officer. Archer was understandably, if a bit irrationally, concerned at the thought of incurring any further risk that wasn't strictly necessary.

"I know, Cap'n. But the crew's gettin' bored stiff. They'd just like to see somethin' happen." Never mind the fact that he, too, was nearing the limit of his ability to sit still and do nothing. Reed would have been itching for some action by now, though he would probably have agreed wholeheartedly with T'Pol's recommendation of caution. Not for the first time, Tucker was annoyed with himself for thinking this way. It had been three weeks since Reed's disappearance-presumed-death, and still in any given situation Tucker often caught himself picturing the former Tactical Officer's reaction. It was as if Reed were still on the ship. A piece of him lingered in the memories of his shipmates.

"I understand." Archer rubbed a hand wearily over his head. These days, he looked tired more often than not. "But I need the safety of the crew to be our top priority."

It sounded as if he were pleading for Tucker to understand and agree. Tucker wondered if the Captain, too, realised that his method of approaching the threat of the Orions was different than it would have been a few years ago. Perhaps he was trying to show that he hadn't changed; that it was just a matter of priority. Rather than being softened by the appeal, Tucker was left slightly unnerved. In the face of potential danger was not the time for any captain to need reassurance from his subordinate.

Tucker realised in the moment that Archer was not the only one who had changed. A couple of years ago he would have hurried to Archer's support with understanding and probably some humour to lighten the atmosphere. Now, his reaction was discomfort, almost distrust. But the Captain was not the only one who regretted the change in them both.

"I guess we'll all have to put up with the ship a little longer. We can clear out the mess hall, put on some jazz, and call it shore leave. They'll never notice the difference."

The weak attempt at a joke fell flat, although Archer smiled along. The two men stared at each other across a widening gulf between them. Tucker wished that Archer would say_ this is ridiculous, Trip, let's just have things the way they were. I've got a couple of beers and a water polo match in my quarters, want to join me?_ But he didn't, and Tucker couldn't find the words he wanted either.

"If that's all, Cap'n?"

"Yes, Commander," Archer said distantly. There was a note of finality in his tone. "Yes, that's all."

* * *

"Malcolm. Malcolm, you must wake."

Something hissed near Reed's ear. His surroundings faded from blackness into sharp focus as he opened his eyes. His heart throbbed painfully, as if he'd just been injected with pure adrenaline.

He was lying on his back on cold, hard metal, and there was a Romulan leaning over him. Reed recoiled instinctively, but had nowhere to go.

"Shh. I mean you no harm. It is only me, S'Trep. Come, you must get up."

"What," Reed croaked weakly, but the Romulan placed a hand firmly over his mouth.

"You must be silent. Get up."

Reed was horribly disoriented. He had a vague recollection of pain and Romulan faces, but he couldn't be certain it hadn't been a dream. This Romulan seemed familiar to him somehow, though he couldn't say how, but nothing else in this strange shadowy place was recognisable.

S'Trep helped him to his feet, something which Reed was too dizzy to accomplish on his own. He supported Reed with one arm. The other arm was occupied by a bulky parcel of some kind. They hurried across the cold, hard floor and through a door into a better-lit, though colourless, hallway. Reed was too dizzy and blinded by the light to walk very well, but the Romulan seemed very urgent. Reed was terribly confused. He felt that something was wrong here. He wanted to lie and rest until the dizziness left, but he did not have the energy to pull away from the Romulan.

The walk seemed to last a very long time, but finally S'Trep deposited him against a wall and disappeared somewhere out of the narrow range that Reed's squinting vision allowed him to see. The alien returned shortly and half-lifted him up a set of stairs into a small chamber. Reed was able with difficulty to make out that it was the inside of a small vessel.

After a few minutes he felt the muted purr of engines, then had to clutch wildly at the sides of the seat he'd been placed in as his still-reeling mind translated the gentle shift of takeoff as a violent rolling motion.

The inside of the shuttle was dark. Reed could barely hear the minute hum of the engines. Still unsure whether he was awake at all, he didn't try to talk. This was not painful, only strange. If it was a dream, he might wake to something much worse. To what? Instinct did not provide that answer.

A long time passed in the darkness and quiet. Occasional glints of light from distant stars lent an ethereal quality to the experience. Despite the adrenaline-fueled pounding of his heart, Reed drifted in a state of half-sleep. He watched the darkness outside, flecked with a thousand pinpricks of white. After what could have been long minutes or hours, he felt the small ship transition to warp. Its purring engines rose to a low throb and the dots of light blurred into coloured streaks against the black of space.

The Romulan flicked on the cabin lights, making Reed blink and squint in the unexpected glare. S'Trep slumped forward in the pilot's seat with a low groan of relief.

Reed felt abstractly that he should say something. But constructing words seemed difficult enough in his present state of disorientation, let alone translating them correctly from his brain to his mouth, so he opted not to make the attempt. After a while, the Romulan sat up and looked over at Reed.

"Are you in pain?"

It was such a non-sequitur to the situation that Reed had difficulty processing it. Apart from the involuntary tremors in his hands and the cold pit of unexplained nerves in his stomach, he felt fine.

"No."

"Good. I had to inject you with a stimulant to wake you. I wasn't sure how it would affect your physiology." He studied Reed with a worried crease in his forehead.

"I don't understand," Reed managed after some thought. He didn't understand anything, really. Where was he? What had happened? He could recall almost nothing before waking to S'Trep's low-spoken words. His dazed condition removed any urgency he felt from the questions in his mind. Perhaps they would take on more meaning later, but for the moment he was only confused, and nervous from the stimulant in his blood.

"No. I expect you don't." S'Trep examined a starchart on a small screen before him. "I'll try to explain when you're more coherent. Try to sleep for now, if you can. There's not much else you can do. Sleep, and pray that your Enterprise finds us before my people or the Orions do."

The word Enterprise stirred a strange uneasiness in Reed. He could not explain it. He did not recognise the word in context, but it held a strange significance, like a foreign word which bears such a strong resemblance to one's own name that it feels familiar.

But the Romulan was right. Reed was at least clear-headed enough to see that. He was in no fit state to understand much of anything right now. He didn't think he could sleep with the jittery alertness of the drug running through him, but he leaned against the side of the craft and closed his eyes against the cabin lights.

* * *

Reed woke to find himself alone in the front of the small spacecraft. Behind him, he heard S'Trep moving around in the back. The Romulan came forward holding a small sealed package. He looked surprised but relieved to find Reed awake.

"You're awake. I was beginning to worry."

Reed pushed himself upright in the seat. His mouth was cottony with dryness. "How long was I asleep?" he asked hoarsely. He thought he had only dozed for a short time, although he did feel much refreshed. The events of the past hours were dreamlike and distant in his mind, but by the fact of his presence on this shuttle with S'Trep, he had clearly not imagined everything.

"Almost twenty-four hours," S'Trep said. "Here, drink this." He handed the pouch to Reed and went into the back of the craft to get another for himself. Reed tore a corner off of the pouch carefully and sipped the liquid inside. It was not water, but seemed to be water-based. The drink had a bitter taste but quenched his thirst quickly.

"How do you feel?" S'Trep asked, returning to the pilot's seat. "I have food, if you're very hungry, but if you can do without that would be best. There's not much of it."

"I'm alright," Reed said. There was a bruise or something similarly painful on his left cheekbone and his head was mildly sore, but otherwise he couldn't find anything wrong with himself. He was quite hungry, but opted not to mention that. "Just confused. I don't understand."

"What can you remember?" S'Trep asked. Reed shook his head doubtfully. Anxiety curled in the pit of his stomach as he searched his mind for anything before waking to S'Trep's urging the previous day, if the Romulan's estimate of the time he'd slept was accurate. He found nothing.

"I'm not sure."

"You know me? Do you know why we are here?"

"I don't know," Reed admitted.

"You were on a Romulan ship, the _Pritak_," S'Trep prompted. "Do you remember why?"

"No." There was a gaping void in what Reed knew he ought to know. He felt he was groping in the dark.

S'Trep sighed. "I was afraid of this. You were on the ship because the Romulans believed you had information that would be useful to them. They have been torturing and interrogating you for the last two and a half weeks."

"I – but I don't know anything," Reed protested. "I don't remember. What did they want?"

"Something you couldn't give them. Or wouldn't. I don't know."

"I don't remember anything."

"You did. You knew something they wanted, but they couldn't get it out of you." The Romulan shook his head. "I am taking you away from them. They did not know we were gone until it was too late."

"You helped me escape?"

"Yes."

Reed wasn't sure he believed that. "Why?"

"I believe what they were doing to you is not right," S'Trep confessed. "The mind probe is an instrument of evil. It should never have existed!"

"I don't understand what you're talking about," Reed said bluntly. S'Trep sighed.

"I suppose I do owe you an explanation."

Reed agreed.

"The Romulan Star Empire has technology to enter the mind in order to retrieve memories," S'Trep began. "It is called a mind probe. The Tal Shiar often uses it for interrogation. It is known to cause intense pain and great damage to the neural network of the individual it is used on, but that is considered…acceptable. It is most effective on a mind that is already vulnerable, so an extended period of torture prior to the use of the probe is not uncommon in situations where time is not a limiting factor.

"You were sold to the Empire by a human named Harris. I do not know why, or what information you were supposed to have. I only understand that it was something of great value to the Empire. For two weeks the captain of the _Pritak_ placed you under extremely high mental and physical stress to open your mind to the probe. However, when he attempted to extract information from you with the mind probe, it malfunctioned in a way we have never seen before. It seemed to backfire on the operator of the probe. He suffered extensive and irreparable neural trauma."

By _extremely high mental and physical stress_, Reed suspected that the Romulan meant torture. He was not sorry he didn't remember that.

"The Captain insisted the malfunction was a fluke and made another attempt, with a similar result. He intended to try again the following day. I refused to allow this abomination to continue."

Reed watched the Romulan suspiciously. His inability to confirm or negate anything S'Trep said with corresponding memories irked him.

"Why should I believe you?" he demanded of the Romulan. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?"

"You cannot," S'Trep said weakly. He looked very tired. "I cannot prove it. You may decide whether or not to believe me. I doubt I could stop you from attacking me and taking control of this ship, if you chose to do so. But you have nowhere to go, and you don't know how to fly this vessel. If you kill me, you will only sabotage yourself. Although I am sure I deserve it."

Reed didn't have a ready response to that. It was true enough, though, that he would have nowhere to go without the Romulan. He had no choice but to trust S'Trep.

"Why can't I remember anything?" he asked, less harshly.

"I put a block in your mind," S'Trep said, without meeting his eyes. "The probe operator was not the only one who suffered trauma to the mind. Your neural network was quite scrambled after the second interrogation with the probe. I had to place a block around the damage to allow you to function. I am sorry, Malcolm. I am not experienced with the technique."

Reed experienced the sensation of hanging to the end of a rope that had just been severed. "Does that mean I'll never remember anything?"

"No," S'Trep said unhappily. "I'm not very good at the technique. I doubt it will last very long. It was the best I could do. I only hope it will last long enough for us to find your ship. Perhaps we can get you to your doctor before it disintegrates."

"What did you mean 'to allow me to function'?" Reed asked warily. S'Trep looked even more distressed.

"The techniques used on you – they are intended to retrieve information at all costs. Including destroying the mind. Your mind appears to be stronger than most, but…"

"What will happen when the block breaks?" Reed asked. His hands felt cold.

"It is not so much a break as a gradual degeneration as your brain rewrites neural connections to the damaged areas." S'Trep shifted uncomfortably. "As these connections are formed, the damaged portions will begin to affect all normal mental functions. You may lose the ability to distinguish between past and present. Your mind may create, distort, or combine memories and draw upon them at random. Essentially, your neural network will become so tangled that it cannot link stimuli to responses."

"I get the picture, thanks," Reed said hastily. He didn't like the sound of that at all. The thought that his own mind could begin to fail him at any moment was terrifying. "How long will this take?"

"I don't know. It could be as little as a few hours or possibly even a month or two." S'Trep assumed a more clinical air. "You must let me know if you experience any confusion, flashbacks, or other physical or mental symptoms."

"I'm experiencing a hell of a lot of confusion right now, thanks," Reed said sharply, made irritable by his own fear. S'Trep looked sideways at him.

"You don't remember anything at all? The Enterprise? Archer?"

"What?" Reed asked, greedy for information. "Enterprise?" The word felt familiar on his tongue, but he had nothing he could connect to it, only a gaping void where understanding should have been. "What are those things?"

"You spoke of them to me," the Romulan told him. "You asked me, 'Where is the Enterprise?' You said you needed to speak to Captain Archer. You asked me to contact him."

"I don't know who that is." Reed clenched his fists in frustration. "Captain of what?"

"A starship, I would presume," S'Trep said. "I believe Enterprise is its name."

"I wouldn't know, would I?" Reed spat at him. He knew he was being unreasonably rude, but he felt little remorse. Any condition of madness would be better than an absolute blankness where he should have had memories of a lifetime up to this point. He had no one to blame but the Romulan. S'Trep winced and didn't answer.

"Where are we going now?" Reed asked, calming himself. Allowing himself to get worked up over something he could not change was unproductive.

"We are on a heading towards your home planet," S'Trep explained. "However, we have neither enough food to keep us alive until then nor enough fuel to power this ship that long. Not to mention that the Empire will be searching for us. We are out of Romulan space now, but that is hardly an obstacle to the Empire."

"I don't like those odds," Reed muttered grimly.

"We must hope that your people or find us first," S'Trep said. "Pray for salvation," he added under his breath, "for the end has come." It sounded like he was quoting something.

"I'm not much of a praying man," Reed said drily. The Romulan looked at him, wide-eyed and startled. "What?"

"I spoke in Romulan!"

"What?"

"I did not say that in English," S'Trep said impatiently. "How did you understand me?"

"I didn't notice," Reed admitted, disquieted.

"I don't understand," S'Trep said in astonishment. "How can you possibly understand Romulan?"

"I don't know."

"I asked you that in Romulan," the medic told him. "This is fascinating." He considered Reed thoughtfully. "Can you speak it?"

"I doubt that. I didn't even realise you weren't speaking English."

"It must have been the mind probe," S'Trep said, awed. "Perhaps when it malfunctioned, you were somehow imprinted with memories from the operator."

"I thought my memories were inaccessible."

"The portion of the brain governing language and communication is separate from the areas that store long-term memory," S'Trep informed him. "It is quite possible. I have never heard of such a thing, but you are already an exception. I can think of no other explanation."

"What a bargain," Reed muttered sourly. "I can't remember anything, but now I understand the Romulan language." A curious thought occurred to him, distracting him from the resentful fear already creeping back in. "How do you know English?"

"I have always been fascinated by languages," the Romulan said, with a hint of wistful pride. "Some time ago, a strange vessel was caught in a minefield on the border of Romulan space. It escaped the minefield and was driven away by patrol vessels, but its entire database was scanned before it left. Some of the information was made public for study, including the portions of the database concerning language."

"What kind of ship was it?"

"A human starship, I assume. I was not involved in the encounter. At the time –"

A shrill siren erupted from the controls of the small craft's controls. S'Trep gasped and bent over the sensor readout.

"What is it?"

"It's a proximity sensor," S'Trep said shakily. His voice was high-pitched with alarm. "There's a ship closing on us."

"What ship?"

"I don't understand," the Romulan protested helplessly. "How can they detect us? The cloak is activated."

The shuttle gave a tremendous shudder as it was struck from behind by weapon fire. Reed almost face-planted into the control panel but caught himself just in time. S'Trep worked frantically over the controls as the streaks of stars coalesced into distant points of light. The shuttle had fallen out of warp. A second jolt set off another alarm somewhere in the craft.

"Tractor beam," S'Trep panted. "Rotating shield frequency."

In the rear viewscreen, Reed could see the ship looming over them. Huge, brown, and ungraceful, it made him think of some carrion creature come to feed off the sick and injured.

"What is it?" he asked again, urgently. S'Trep's fear was contagious. It gripped at Reed as the Romulan looked up, panic-stricken.

"Orions."


	8. Chapter 8

The Orion guards stripped their prisoners of clothes and possessions with ruthless efficiency. The green-skinned humanoids seemed utterly bored, and when Reed made a halfway effort to retain at least his underclothes he was thrown to the floor unceremoniously. One guard put a foot on his throat, just firm enough to make him struggle for breath, while the other cut off the clothing. The dull side of the blade slid sickeningly across his bare skin, leaving a trail of cold behind. The Orions cuffed his feet together with a short, heavy chain.

Reed was passed through hands that held whips and disruptor pistols. One Orion in a dark-hued coat forced his mouth open and slid a gloved finger around his teeth. Reed would have bitten him except that a guard stood by, casually holding a disruptor pistol against the small finger of Reed's left hand. The threat was clear. The technician gave a pleased nod and Reed was shuffled along to the next station, where the largest Orion he'd seen yet pinned him easily against a wall while another technician stuck a needle in his head, just beneath his ear. There was no point in resisting, although Reed found the thick needle a barbarically old-fashioned instrument. He understood the purpose within minutes, however; the Orions' unintelligible language became steadily more familiar until eventually Reed could understand as if it were English. Apparently he'd been injected with a subdermal translator.

He was at length herded into a modified cargo bay by the hulking guards, where he found himself among at least two dozen others similarly stripped to their skin. These were mostly of species that Reed had never seen, though he recognised an Andorian and two Denobulans. One of these was a female child about seven years old, naked like all the others. Reed turned his eyes away, torn between outrage at their captors and horror at the child's predicament. What would become of the child? At least she wasn't alone.

He looked for S'Trep, but the Romulan was nowhere to be seen. Reed wondered if he would ever see the medic again. He attempted conversation with one or two of the other prisoners, hoping to get an idea of where he was in space. He knew they understood his words, assuming they too had received subdermal translators, but none of them replied. Reed soon discovered why when a sharp sting cracked across the back of his legs. He turned to see an Orion guard holding up a whip, menacingly preparing to strike him again.

"No talking," the guard growled. Reed felt that, under the circumstances, there was little point in disobeying. He could do no good by getting his skin stripped off.

* * *

There was simply no way out.

Tucker stared at the board in front of him, determined to come up with some brilliant solution that had been inexplicably eluding him for the past ten minutes.

"When did you get so good at chess?" Sato asked Covan, who sat across from the increasingly-frustrated engineer.

"Starfleet Academy. I suppose I just picked it up."

"Just picked it up," Tucker muttered sullenly under his breath. Unlike the Andorian lieutenant, he had spent long hours perfecting his chess skills under the tutelage of T'Pol for the express purpose of defeating a nearly-unbeatable opponent. Unfortunately, it now seemed that the aforementioned skills were far less than perfect after all. However, Tucker excused himself, he was out of the habit. His usual practice partner was mysteriously absent.

Bad-temperedly, he flicked his black king over onto its face. Covan raised his eyebrows.

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

Tucker resisted the urge to glare, and kept the sarcasm out of his voice with difficulty. "I guess I'm just not a match for you."

"It is still possible to force a draw," Covan informed him. "Would you like me to show you how?"

"No thanks. I think I've had enough chess fer the day."

"An excellent game, Commander." Covan rose and extended a hand, beaming. "You are a worthy opponent."

"Thanks," Tucker said grudgingly, shaking the tactical officer's hand. The Andorian offered Sato a graceful dip of the head before departing the mostly-empty mess hall. When he had gone, Tucker busied himself setting up the pieces again to avoid Sato's glare.

"What is wrong with you, Trip?"

"Nothin's wrong with me."

"He knows you don't like him."

Tucker shook his head in annoyance more than denial. He'd made almost every effort to be civil to the Andorian in the past few weeks, setting aside his initial misgivings in the interest of professionalism. He thought he'd been restraining himself quite well, on the whole. He'd even accepted Covan's offer of a game of chess, which, it now seemed, had been merely an excuse on the part of the Andorian to embarrass him.

"This is getting ridiculous," Sato said irritably. "He's on a ship full of aliens. It's hard enough for him to feel welcome without you at his throat all the time."

"I am not at his throat!"

"You know what I mean, Trip. This isn't easy for him either. Covan's not an idiot, he knows no one wanted him here."

"The poor man," Tucker said acidly. "He seems to be enjoyin' himself jes' fine. Forgive me if I'm not bendin' over backwards to make him feel welcome."

"No, you're not, and you're not the only one. You're a senior officer. The crew looks up to you, and they're not blind. A lot of them are taking their cue from you."

Tucker winced involuntarily at Sato's words. That hurt. It wasn't as if he hadn't noticed the tension between the new tactical officer and many of the crewmen, especially those in engineering. It hadn't occurred to him that he might be the cause – or if it had, he'd opted not to dwell on it and chalked up the discontent to the Andorian's _charming_ personality. Now, he realised that there was more than a little truth in Sato's words.

"I'm tryin', Hoshi, alright?"

"You need to try harder." The communications officer was unusually severe. "It's affecting good order and discipline."

"Goddammit, Hoshi. Don't do that."

"Why?" Sato leaned forward, forcing Tucker to meet her eyes. "Because it's something Malcolm would have said? Maybe it's something you need to hear. In case you haven't noticed, Malcolm is dead."

"Is that what yer tellin' yerself?" Tucker asked nastily. He knew he was crossing a line. "Is that why yer so buddy-buddy with Covan? I guess yer tryin' to replace Malcolm too."

He did not even see Sato's stinging slap coming. Tucker stared at her in disbelief.

"I could put yew on report fer that."

Sato's face was pink with anger. "You can try, _sir_."

Across the mess hall, Tucker saw two astonished crewmen whispering to each other. He lowered his voice.

"Get ahold of yerself, Ensign."

"I don't think I'm the one who needs to do that," Sato spat back at him. "Do you think I don't miss Malcolm every single day? Do you think there's anything I wouldn't do to have him back? I would give anything, Trip. But that's not a reason to flip off Covan every chance I get. He's doing his best and it's not his fault that he's not Malcolm. You've got to get it together, for the sake of the crew if not for Covan. Malcolm is gone, and he's not coming back."

"That's a lie," Tucker snarled in her face. His hands shook against the edge of the table. "He's not gone."

Sato stared at him with a mixture of anger and pity. _If only you knew_, Tucker thought furiously. The Captain's order prevented him speaking further. He had already said too much.

"Let me know when you're thinking clearly," Sato said. "We can talk then."

* * *

The lights came on with a snap and the day's motion began. In his few days aboard the slave ship, Reed had quickly learned what was expected of prisoners. The lights signalled the first of two meals in each day, judged by the ship's time. Any prisoner who did not get up for food was examined by a guard to discover the reason. If it were illness, the prisoner was quickly removed to prevent the spread of disease. Reed did not know where these were taken. He did not like to guess. Any other reason for refusing food resulted in the prisoner being force-fed the foulest scraps the guards could find. After the first day, Reed ate without protest.

There were at all times during the day at least two guards in the cargo bay. The Orions paid little attention to the prisoners, as long as they did not congregate, speak, or move around too much. These rules were enforced with whips. Few of the prisoners needed more than a single lash to get the message clearly.

This day was different. From the corner of the bay, a guard unrolled the hose used for drinking water and sprayed down the prisoners one at a time as two other guards herded the motley collection into a line. Afterwards, still dripping and shivering from the cold spray, the prisoners were given rough, shapeless brown garments. Reed and most of the others were loaded into a smaller cargo transport ship, where the air quickly grew warm and stale in the overcrowded hold. Reed understood where the transport was taking them when he saw the planet below through one of the tiny portholes: this must be the slave market.

* * *

"What the hell did you think you were doing, Commander?"

Tucker stood rigidly at attention in the Captain's ready room, enduring the storm of Archer's wrath in stoic silence. It was not unexpected, although he did wonder how the story had come to the Captain's attention. Perhaps one of the crewmen who had witnessed the argument in the mess hall had reported it. Maybe Sato herself had done so. Tucker scolded himself for having such a low opinion of her. Angry as she might be at him, he doubted she would intentionally try to incriminate him.

"A physical altercation with a junior officer? Have you lost your mind?"

"That's an exaggeration, sir," Tucker hazarded. "It was not a physical altercation."

"Perhaps you'd care to describe it to me, then."

Tucker wasn't about to tell a story that might drag Sato into the line of fire. He said nothing.

"I didn't think so," Archer said grimly. He sighed heavily. "I know you're not happy with being cooped up on the ship for so long. But I would never have expected this kind of blatant misbehaviour from you, of all people."

"It has nothing to do with being on the ship for so long," Trip gritted out at him. He wanted to vent his anger on Archer, but he restrained himself.

Archer leaned back against the desk. "I see." He gave Tucker a _would-you-care-to-elaborate_ look. The engineer did not care to elaborate.

"You're angry with me," Archer observed. Tucker didn't see a reason to deny it. "Is it about Malcolm?" The engineer's continued silence answered the question clearly. "Still? We've been over this," Archer said aggravatedly. "There's nothing I can do. We don't have any way to locate him, and it was his choice to leave."

"I'm not so sure about that."

Archer rubbed his forehead in exasperation. "I don't have time to argue with you, Commander. I suggest you get yourself figured out, and do it soon. I'm taking you off duty for the rest of the day. I expect you to be prepared to act like an officer by the start of your next shift. I don't want to put you on report. Don't make me do it."

* * *

Reed sat with his back to the bars at one end of the cage, watching the movement of buyers and sellers around the open market square. He had resigned himself to the fact that there was no way to get his back satisfactorily up against something in a barred cage which stood nowhere near a wall, and as a result he was unable to relax even for a moment. Diagonally across the cage, the two Denobulans sat clumped into another corner. The male, a young adult by Reed's best guess, remained likewise alert. The girl-child slept tucked close to his side. Reed wondered if she was ill. She seemed to have been asleep most of the time in the Orion ship, too. Perhaps all Denobulan children slept a lot.

The older Denobulan certainly would not have dared to sleep regardless. He watched Reed almost ceaselessly, seeming to view the fellow prisoner as a greater threat than either Orion guards or slave buyers. Reed considered trying to reassure the man, but thought better of it. Better by far for the Denobulan to focus his fears where they need not be than for him to consider what was actually likely to become of his young companion – his daughter, Reed presumed. He suspected that the child would not go untouched for long, if the lingering glances of some of the more perverted slave traders were anything to go by. The thought filled him with reckless anger. _Let them try_, he thought grimly. He knew there was little he could do to prevent the child being separated from her father and sold, but he indulged himself with the temporary fantasy that he could protect her. He found himself watching the child sleep, shivering slightly in the thin clothing that did nothing to protect her from the chill, until he noticed her father glaring at him. He was careful to keep his gaze away from the Denobulans after that.

As the hours wore on, the busy trading in the market began to die down. Reed guessed that night was beginning to fall. Perhaps at night the market was closed. Rationally, he knew that escape was not even an option, but the situation seemed much more hopeful without dozens of guards and slave traders milling indiscriminately around. At least the Denobulan girl and her father would have a few more hours together.

The market did not empty as Reed had hoped, although the clientele changed. The newcomers were the lowlifes of the city, looking not for a purchase but a loan. The Orion traders were not scrupulous about what services they were paid for. Reed turned away from the sights in horror, but he could not block out the screams. The Denobulan girl woke at the sounds. Her father pressed her head into his chest and covered her ears, bending low over her to hide her as much as possible from the notice of both the guards and the customers.

Humanoids of species both familiar and unknown to Reed wandered by, most barely glancing into his cage. He was just beginning to hope that the child might go overlooked when an Orion guard approached the cage and began to unlock the door. Reed looked around to see the customer, but it appeared that the Orion was pursuing his own carnal pleasures. The Denobulan man scrambled toward the back of the cage, pulling his daughter with him. His fear of Reed had been overpowered by the more pressing danger.

Reed sat with his eyes slitted closed, feeling very calm, as the Orion stepped into the cage, ducking his head to fit inside. The Denobulan pushed his smaller companion back into the corner and interposed his body between her and the approaching menace. Reed rose to his feet and stepped directly in front of the Orion guard.

"Stop."

The guard did not even bother telling him to move. He reached out a hand to shove the human aside, but Reed moved first.

The Orion was taller than him by far, and Reed couldn't get a good angle at his face. Instead, he struck lower – much lower. It was a blow designed not only to drive the guard away for the moment, but also to dissuade him entirely from returning. He struck the guard in the groin with all the strength he had and was momentarily rewarded when the Orion doubled over with an agonized groan. Reed doubted the Orion would be interested in the Denobulan girl or any other female for some time to come.

Reed's satisfaction did not last. The Orion straightened long enough to seize him by the arm, quicker than Reed thought possible, and hurled him against the back of the cage. Reed's head struck the metal bars and he collapsed to the concrete floor, dazed, the wind knocked out of him. The guard backed out of the cage and locked it, swearing profusely amid the raucous laughter of his colleagues and the customers in the market.

Reed blinked the swirling haze of blackness out of his vision as he struggled for breath. When his sight cleared, the Denobulan was kneeling over him.

"Are you alright?"

Reed nodded, lacking the breath to answer aloud. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, relieved to see that the attention was already turning away from himself and the injured Orion and back to the grisly business at hand. The Denobulan backed away and returned to the girl, who pressed up against him with her face hidden once again.

"I am Fenzin," the Denobulan said. "This is Ayaila. I thank you for what you have done."

"I'm Malcolm."

Fenzin bowed his head. "Thank you, Malcolm."

"Is your daughter okay?" Reed asked. The girl was cowering against Fenzin with her face buried in his stomach. Her body trembled.

"She's not my daughter," the Denobulan explained. "She is my brother's first wife's daughter by her second husband."

Reed did not try to sort through this complicated tangle of family structure, and mentally assigned the word "niece" as the closest approximation to the relationship Fenzin had described. "Is she hurt?"

Fenzin patted the child's head gently. "No. She's afraid, but she will be fine."

Reed thought this an extremely optimistic view of the situation. In driving off the Orion, he had most likely only postponed the inevitable. The Denobulan girl might be uninjured for the moment, but that would only last until she was separated from Fenzin and sold. Possibly it would not even last that long.

"How did you come to be here?" Reed asked.

"I was taking Ayaila to visit her mother's family on Thespa," the Denobulan explained. Reed did not recognise the name of the planet. "I'm afraid the auto-navigation system on my shuttle must have malfunctioned. I plotted a course outside of Orion space, but I confess I was not particularly diligent about checking our course. I have made the journey before and thought the way was safe."

Reed watched the man with muted incredulity. Either Fenzin was a bit slow and did not understand the nature of the Orions' business, or he was incredibly naïve. Even frightened and caged in the middle of a slave market currently operating as a brothel, with nothing but his own frail body to place between his niece and the myriad of dangers threatening her, his attitude seemed to hold a gentle sort of optimism, as if he regretted his carelessness but was sure that, in the end, all would be well. Reed was under no such illusions.

"What of you?" Fenzin asked him. He had settled himself in the corner near Reed and placed his hands once more over Ayaila's ears. She seemed marginally calmer.

"I'm not sure," Reed admitted warily. He expected to be questioned, but Fenzin only nodded as if there was nothing strange about not knowing how one had come to be captured by slave traders.

"I am sorry I could not help you against the Orion," the Denobulan said. "I fear I do not have much understanding of fighting. I am not a violent man."

Reed could have laughed from sheer incomprehension. He could not grasp how anyone could fail to fight for their family, regardless of how inexperienced they were, should the need arise. Instead of laughing he shrugged and said nothing. His ribs and the back of his head where he had impacted the bars of the cage were beginning to throb quite badly as the adrenaline wore off, and he was not sorry to discontinue the unproductive conversation. He did not exactly dislike the Denobulan, but there was something unappealing about the man's naïve stupidity. Reed wondered how Ayaila had survived even as long as she had in the Orions' hands with Fenzin as her only guardian.

He turned away from the Denobulans and rested his forehead against the cool bar in the corner of the cage. The activity in the market had begun to die down slightly, as the earlier customers grew sated and began to file out. Many of the female prisoners lay on the flat concrete, sobbing. Others, more worryingly, were silent. Reed wondered if they were dead. He could smell blood in the air. He closed his eyes to shut out the sight of it all, but that took away none of his other senses and did not dull his urge to scream curses at the Orion captors and tear their eyes out with his bare hands. Blinding himself to his surroundings was of no use, so Reed allowed his gaze to drift across the market until it was drawn to a particular captive.

On the floor of a cage some ten metres away lay one of these unfortunate prisoners, a middle-aged female of a species Reed could not instantly identify. Only after some scrutiny did he determine that she was the same species as S'Trep. Her brow ridge was not pronounced, which made her less easily recognisable as a Romulan.

As Reed watched, her eyes blinked open and she shifted, as if sensing his gaze upon her, until her stare met his. Her eyes were dark and almond-shaped, and something about their colour and shape seemed to Reed vaguely reminiscent of someone he had known somewhere, sometime. The Romulan woman did not cry. Her clothing was stained with blood, but she gave no outward signs of pain. Only her eyes, staring back at him, were haunted.

Reed found he could not meet her unblinking gaze without feeling responsible for what had been done to her; but since he had done nothing to stop the assault on her – there was nothing he could have done, caged as he was, but that very helplessness condemned him to a kind of guilt – he did not avert his eyes. The least apology he could give was not to turn away. They stared at each other across the metres of emptiness until she closed her eyes and turned her head aside.

Reed gritted his teeth in helpless rage. The resignation he'd succumbed to in the last few hours died, replaced by anger. What did it matter if he lived or died here? Why should he fear the Orions? There were worse fates than death that the Orions could deal out and he had just seen that fate be executed upon others. He could not save them all, Reed knew, but perhaps he could save one.

_I will not let them hurt you_, he swore silently. He did not know if he spoke to Ayaila or to the Romulan woman lying motionless in her cage.

* * *

Sato opened the door after the second knock. She was still in uniform from her shift, and looked surprised and wary upon seeing Tucker.

"I'm not here t' argue," he said quickly, forestalling her reservations. "Cap'n would probably throw me in th' brig. He chewed me out proper."

"Do you want me to feel sorry for you?"

She was still angry. That was hardly surprising. Tucker sighed unhappily.

"No, Hoshi, I don't. Matter of fact I'm here t' say sorry t' yew."

Sato didn't quite seem to believe him. Tucker resigned himself to throwing himself thoroughly on his own sword, and quite possibly grovelling a bit after that. It was certainly deserved. "I was way outta line, Hoshi. Yew were right, I haven't been fair to Covan."

Sato's hard expression softened slightly, but she offered no outlet of escape and waited in silence for him to continue.

"Malcolm is gone," Tucker admitted humbly. "An' I shouldn't have –"

Quite unexpectedly, he found himself too choked up to continue. It felt like giving up hope to say the words aloud. Malcolm might be out there somewhere, waiting for a rescue that would never come. He might be some place that he could finally let down the façade of _Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, Starfleet Officer_. He might be dead. Tucker would never know. Malcolm was gone, just as if he were dead; but without the closure.

"Come on." Sato stepped aside to let him into her quarters. She spoke gently. "Get in here."

"I'm sorry," Tucker said thickly, following her inside. Sato closed the door behind them.

"I know." She took his hand. "So am I. I wasn't fair to you. I know you miss him, and you were right too. Covan cheers me up, and I guess I do feel guilty about that. Sometimes it does feel like I'm replacing Malcolm. But Covan will never be Malcolm. Okay? I haven't forgotten about him, and I won't. But I don't think he'd want me to mope around. Well, maybe a little bit," she added, on reflection.

"Maybe a little bit," Tucker agreed with a shaky smile. "You know he would."

"But not forever," Sato said, meeting Tucker's eyes earnestly. "That's no way to live, Trip."

"I know."

"Hey. Come here." Sato tugged him closer by the hand and released it to put her arms around him. She felt small and warm against him. Tucker closed his eyes and rested his forehead against her shoulder. She was short enough that he had to lower his head to do so.

"'M sorry, Hosh."

"It's okay."

"'M just tired of this. You know?"

"Yeah. I know."

"It wasn't s'pposed t' be this way."

"No." Hoshi stroked a hand over the back of his head. "It wasn't. It really wasn't."

The tears came freely. Tucker had no immediate desire to stop them.

"Sorry."

"Stop. It's okay, Trip."

It wasn't, and it might never be. Tucker was desperately tired of watching the people he cared about disappearing before his eyes. First it had been his sister along with seven million others in the Xindi attack; then it had been the second Elizabeth, the daughter he'd never known. He'd watched Archer, his former best friend, slowly fade into little more than an aggressive and vindictive commander. Now Malcolm was gone too. Who was next? Hoshi, maybe? He didn't think he could stand to lose anyone else.

* * *

The auctions started early.

Scraps of dirty bread and a single bowl of water were distributed to each of the cages. Now that the sale of their prisoners was imminent, the Orions seemed to have lost all interest in preventing disease from shared water. Reed allowed himself a sparing sip of the liquid, but refused to eat anything. Fenzin ate only after Ayaila had filled her stomach enough to refuse any more of the grimy bread. Reed's estimation of the Denobulan man increased very slightly.

The Romulan woman in the nearby cage was sitting upright. She must have been in great pain, but she did not show it. She drank thirstily and even ate a bit, never once glancing Reed's way.

Shortly after the food distribution, an Orion guard limped over to the cage shared by Reed and the Denobulans. Reed recognised him by the limp and the glare as the same guard who had unsuccessfully tried to approach Ayaila the previous day. Full of his newfound recklessness, Reed stood boldly in front of the door of the cage, prepared for another confrontation. The guard opened the cage door just wide enough to get one arm in and seized Reed's wrist firmly. Reed allowed himself to be dragged out of the cage, waiting for any opportunity. He was afforded none. As soon as he was out of the enclosed space, the guard pulled a short rod from his belt and shoved it into Reed's stomach.

Reed had been electrocuted only once before, and that had been a fairly mild accident. This was neither an accident, nor mild. His entire body stiffened as the shock spasmed his muscles, and when he opened his eyes a few seconds or possibly minutes later he was lying on the floor. The Orion knelt beside him and casually pressed a thin piece of metal against his neck, just below his ear. Reed cringed in discomfort as he felt wires from the underside of the metal piece sinking into his skin. It attached itself to him like a parasite.

"Don't try anything unless you want more of that," the guard warned.

An electric implant, as if he were a dog. Reed struggled to walk when the guard hauled him to his feet and pulled him toward one of the platforms scattered around the room. At every movement, his muscles threatened to cramp again. The guard deposited him on the ground behind the platform, where an auctioneer was already beginning to warm up the crowd by lauding the quality of his stock.

An old Andorian man was the first to be sold, followed by an Orion female. Reed was somewhat startled by this, but on reflection it did not surprise him. The Orions did not seem particular about what they sold.

The limping guard appeared as soon as the third prisoner had been bargained off and half-led, half-dragged Reed up onto the wooden platform. It was rough beneath his bare feet and he felt a splinter or two snare in his skin before he managed to get his footing and keep up with the guard.

"A human!" the auctioneer was saying. "A fine specimen. Young male, in perfect health!"

Reed stood still, looking out at the crowd of alien faces staring appraisingly up at him. He felt like a zoo animal. The guard made him turn in a circle, walk back and forth across the platform, and remove his loose-fitting, ragged shirt. When the bidding started he stood motionless again. The market seemed to have faded into distant echoes. He did not even hear the winning bid – did not know what the final decision of his monetary value was. Some distance away, the two Denobulans were huddled together again in the back of the cage. Just beyond them the Romulan woman stood close to the bars of her cage. She was watching Reed with intent, expressionless interest. The vague recognition prompted by her dark, almond-shaped eyes returned. Before Reed could try to search out the cause for this recognition, he was seized roughly by the Orion guard and driven off the platform to be replaced by the next item of sale.

His buyer was a rough-looking humanoid of indeterminate species with a nose that was flattened either by nature or some violent confrontation. The guard seemed to know him, and addressed him as "Entek." Reed could not determine if that was the customer's name or his species.

The man carried a powerful disruptor pistol of a configuration that was new to Reed. Once he had handed over the agreed-upon sum, the Orion gave him the control for the electric implant. The buyer tested it at a low setting that was still enough to make Reed gasp and flinch violently at the shock. He immediately loathed Entek.

It was a good thing he didn't plan to remain long in the alien's company.


	9. Chapter 9

In the week since the Enterprise had entered Orion space, sensors had almost continually picked up between one and four ships trailing behind at a safe distance. Nothing had ever come within weapons range – somewhat to the disappointment, Tucker thought, of the Armoury crew. Apparently the Orions considered the Enterprise either too large or too formidable of a target to attack openly. Even so, the presence of Orion ships kept the crew of the Enterprise on high alert. That wasn't a bad thing. After three weeks of almost nothing to do, Tucker had experienced difficulties keeping his staff from becoming complacent, and he knew the problem was not limited to engineering. The presence of a threat, real or perceived, provided a welcome opportunity for them all to do real work instead of training exercises.

Despite the re-energizing effect of the threat, nothing had come of it so far. Tucker could see the boredom slowly growing again. Conscious as he was of the possible threat behind them, even Tucker was becoming frustrated with the inability to investigate any of the several M-class planets the Enterprise had passed near. He well understood the arguments against such an expedition. That didn't mean he agreed with the decision not to.

Out of lack of anything better to do, Tucker spent most of his time on the bridge except when administrative duties or routine maintenance called him elsewhere. He was there when, on the seventh day since entering Orion space, the communications array picked up an unexpected signal.

"Captain, I'm picking up a distress call," Sato reported.

"Source?"

Sato looked strangely puzzled. Instead of replying, she spoke to the science officer. "T'Pol, would you take a look at this?"

The Vulcan raised a curious eyebrow as she joined Sato at the communications console. "What is it, Ensign?"

The two conferred in lowered voices. Archer waited impatiently.

"Hoshi?"

Sato looked up, bewilderment clear on her face. "Sir, I don't know how, but…it's a Starfleet frequency."

In Archer's face, Tucker saw the same blinding flash of realisation that he felt. Starfleet had no presence this far out. Starfleet had never even been this far out before. There was only one unaccounted-for source that could produce such a signal.

"Malcolm," Tucker breathed soundlessly. He saw the thought reflected back at him across the bridge.

"Source?" Archer asked again.

"About ten million kilometres, sir."

T'Pol returned to the science station with long, sure strides. Tucker wondered if the same thought had occurred to her, too.

"A small vessel of unknown configuration, Captain. It is being pursued by two larger vessels. It appears to be unarmed."

"Get us there," Archer commanded Mayweather, grimly. Tucker felt a rush of adrenaline. His hands were damp. "Covan, polarize the hull plating and charge phase cannons. Give them a warning shot first, but fire at will if they target us or that ship."

It seemed to take a lifetime to get in range of the threatened vessel. It was a lifetime, Tucker thought: Reed's lifetime. He felt a swell of goodwill towards the Andorian tactical officer when Covan opened fire with a mighty blast from the super-charged phase cannons, directly between the two larger ships. The Enterprise swooped protectively down over the smaller vessel. Somewhat to Tucker's disappointment, the hostile ships fled instantly, without waiting to ask questions.

"Hail that ship," Archer ordered Sato. His voice was tense with uncertain expectation.

"Onscreen," Sato said. Tucker's chest tightened with hope.

The face that appeared on the viewscreen, however, was not Reed's. It was not even human. Stomach churning with let-down, Tucker heard T'Pol draw in a breath – not a gasp, but if she'd been human it would have been. Apparently the alien on the screen meant something to her that it did not to the others.

"I am Captain Archer of the USS Enterprise," Archer said, masking his disappointment well if indeed he felt it. "Who are you? Why are you using a Starfleet frequency?"

The alien was badly knocked about. Greenish blood trickled from a deep cut across one temple, and a livid bruise covered much of one swollen cheek, encompassing the eye. "Captain…Archer? This is the Enterprise?"

"You know of us?" Archer asked cautiously. The alien stared disbelievingly back, momentarily too stunned to answer.

"Yes," he replied at last, dazedly. "Yes, I have heard of you. I have news of your officer."

The tension in the bridge was so thick it could have been spread on toast. Tucker gripped the edge of the science station to keep his balance, knowing that the same thought in his mind was shared by both Archer and T'Pol.

"My…officer?" Archer's voice seemed to come from a long distance away. Tucker felt the answer before he heard it.

"Malcolm Reed."

Tucker heard muted gasps from Sato and Mayweather. Covan looked confused. Tucker thought he might fall.

"You must be mistaken," Archer said slowly. "Lieutenant Reed has been dead for four weeks."

_Damn you, Jon!_ Tucker wanted to shout. _Even now, even when you know Malcolm is alive – and nearby! Even now, you would keep lying? Why?_

The alien was swaying, visibly struggling to remain upright. "I assure you, Captain," he said weakly, "Malcolm was alive no more than a week ago. And I believe he still is. But, perhaps, not for long."

Operating on autopilot, Archer turned to Covan. "Lieutenant, deploy the grappling hooks. Bring him in."

"Captain, I strongly urge against this," T'Pol said unexpectedly. "This man is a Romulan. They are a known enemy of the Vulcan High Command – a highly dangerous and aggressive species. This could be a trap."

Covan, somewhat recovered from the confusion, backed her up. "Sub-Commander T'Pol is right. There's no telling what could be on that ship, or what could be waiting for us to depolarize the hull plating. Romulans have cloaking technology. There could be a dozen warships waiting out there, for all we know."

For the briefest of hopeless moments, Tucker thought Archer would agree and refuse to bring in the foundering ship. Then the captain rounded on the Andorian. His face was dark with anger.

"Do it," he commanded in such a furious tone that Covan's antennae flicked back against his skull in alarm. "Now."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant answered softly, nimble fingers already at work over the controls.

"Ensign, tell Phlox to meet me in the shuttlebay. Lieutenant, send a security team to the bay."

* * *

Reed followed his buyer submissively out of the slave market. He kept his eyes down, watching the alien carefully through his peripheral vision. Entek led him through the crowded street outside and then turned off it into a less populated vicinity. Reed hid his mounting excitement as they headed into emptier portions of the city. With every step away from the crowded streets, his chances of escape grew. He reminded himself not to act in haste. He would only have one chance at freedom.

They traversed a series of small lanes before finally turning into a narrow, dirty alley. Reed was astonished that his captor seemed so careless about his surroundings. Perhaps he was confident that his prisoner would not dare attack him.

If so, that was to Reed's advantage.

He lunged at the alien, knocking Entek against the wall of the alley, and found the man not as unprepared as he had expected. Entek let his back hit the wall hard and ducked under Reed's swing at him, coming up on the other side of the blow and retaliating with a strike that glanced off Reed's cheekbone. Reed managed to get a single punch into the alien's nose with his free hand as Entek fumbled for his weapon, hindered by Reed's grasp on his arm. He struck savagely down on the human's collarbone with one hand, momentarily weakening Reed's grip. Entek surged backward and twisted away, kicking at Reed's knee as he did so and knocking him back to all fours. The muzzle of the disruptor was in Reed's face before he could even start to get up.

Breathing heavily, Entek wiped the blood off his face with his free hand.

"You're lucky you're not dead."

That was completely true. Reed watched the disruptor pistol's muzzle wavering in front of his nose with Entek's harsh breathing. He felt very calm. Entek had just spent money on him, Reed reasoned. He wasn't likely to kill his purchase so quickly. He allowed himself one quick glance at the alien's face and saw excitement glittering in the pale eyes.

"You have a lot of nerve, don't you? I saw what you did to the Orion yesterday. I was hoping I'd get to try you first-hand."

The pistol was very close. Reed imagined he could feel heat radiating from it, although it had not been fired. He understood now that Entek had been tempting him to attack, curious to see his new purchase's martial prowess. He no longer wondered at the man's blatant avoidance of crowded areas. Entek had wanted Reed to make a move against him.

"Fight like that every time and one day you'll buy yourself free."

The alien was still fully expecting Reed to make another attack on him. Reed relaxed, sinking back on his heels. A fighting ring of some kind? Gambling, most likely. It was an interesting thought.

"I could get used to that," Reed said in a low voice. He raised his eyes slowly to Entek's face. The alien lowered the pistol with a look of grim satisfaction and Reed struck without hesitation. He grabbed Entek's wrist at the same moment as the man fired and the disruptor bolt struck the side of his stomach hard enough to take the breath out of him. Reed did not feel any pain. He twisted Entek's wrist savagely, fighting for control of the weapon, and they wrestled silently for several seconds. Reed dropped backward, letting his weight pull his opponent forward and off balance. He kicked out at the alien's groin, but Entek dodged expertly as he fell forward onto Reed. Finding his efforts turned against him, Reed rolled to the side to prevent the other man landing directly on top of him.

The pistol was of the utmost importance. The pistol was life or death. Reed gripped the cold metal with all the strength he had and forced it down against the hard ground. He lowered his head to protect his face and brought his knee up into Entek's stomach. He was rewarded with a low grunt as his blow met its mark. Apparently, the alien's physiology was similar enough to that of a human that its soft belly was vulnerable too. He punched in with his knee again, feeling Entek's grip on the weapon loosen. Sensing Reed's growing power over the pistol, the alien let go of it entirely and in one swift movement threw a fist into Reed's face. His nose crunched nastily but the weapon was in his possession, so it mattered not at all.

Entek kicked off the ground and slammed his shoulder into Reed's chest, rolling him over. Reed lost his grip on the weapon. In a panic he set his back against the ground and let Entek's momentum carry the alien over him. Entek's arms were caught down between himself and Reed. There was a sharp crack as the alien's head collided hard with the ground and he went still. Reed's mind did not register the unexpected end to the fight. Hot-blooded and still battling for his life, Reed snatched up the disruptor pistol and pressed it against the back of Entek's head.

He realised what he was doing at the very last second and jerked the muzzle of the pistol to the side just as he fired. The disruptor bolt scorched a black mark on the concrete beside the unconscious man's head. Reed crouched over the alien's limp body, shaking and gasping for air that seemed determined to elude him. He had almost killed an unconscious man. It was not killing that repulsed him, but the realisation that he had instinctively tried to murder a defenceless opponent. Reed sat back and wiped an unsteady hand across his mouth. Blood from his nose smeared across his wrist. He was having a hard time breathing. His head felt very strange.

Reed wondered what to do with Entek. He could not kill the man outright, not now that Entek was unconscious and unable to fight back. Neither could he leave him lying here. Someone might find the body, or the alien might reawaken and raise the alarm of an escaped fugitive. He would have to immobilize Entek in some way and hide the body. Reed got slowly to his feet and as he straightened a burst of searing pain exploded in his side. Reed staggered and barely caught himself on the wall of the alley. He looked down to see a burnt mess of black and red outlined sharply against the dull beige of his clothing. The disruptor had left a blackened mark on concrete; it had done much worse to human flesh. The smell of burnt meat assailed Reed. He sank back to the ground, dazed, pressing a hand over the wound.

"Goddammit." He barely had enough breath to speak at all. For a moment, he feared that this was the end. He thought of the little Denobulan girl back in the slave market, perhaps being sold right now. No one else on this entire planet had even a single thought for the child's fate except Fenzin, who was hardly capable of protecting her.

Reed forced himself to take a few deep breaths and think logically. He re-examined the wound, more carefully this time. Upon closer scrutiny he felt his hopes rise. Although the injury was quite deep, the heat of the disruptor bolt had done an effective job of cauterizing it. Blood oozed out here and there, but he was in no immediate danger of bleeding to death. By the fact that he was still conscious and upright under his own power, he seemed to have escaped serious internal injury. It was simply tremendously painful. Most likely that, and the after-effects of adrenaline, were the cause of his difficulty breathing and dizziness. The greatest danger at the moment, Reed decided, was infection. There was little he could do about that – but, he thought grimly, infection would be a few days in setting in. He had at least that long before the injury would become dangerous.

He ripped off a wide swath of Entek's shirt and wrapped it around his body to make a crude bandage, in case the wound began bleeding. Reed climbed cautiously to his feet. Braced against the pain this time, he was able to stand mostly upright. He looked around for something to do with Entek's body. Not far down the alley he discovered a door into one of the adjacent buildings standing ajar. With difficulty, he dragged the alien the distance to the door and deposited it just inside. Before leaving, he cracked the butt of the pistol hard across Entek's head to be sure that the man would not wake up any time soon.

Outside, Reed paused to formulate his thoughts as he tucked the disruptor pistol into the waistband of his pants. It was hard and uncomfortable against his hip bone. The next order of business was to make his way back into the slave market unobserved. If Fenzin and the girl were still there, he would have to devise a plan of escape. If not, he would be forced to search for them. Either way he would not get far in the distinctive loose garb of an Orion prisoner. He would have to clothe himself in Entek's garments. Reed turned back to the door he had just closed. The handle rattled faintly and did not move.

Reed cursed himself for a fool. He waited a moment and twitched the handle again, hoping against hope for a different result. It was firmly locked. He momentarily considered attacking the door with the disruptor pistol, but he didn't know how much charge the weapon's power cell held and he needed it for other purposes. It would take a repeated shots to get through the heavy metal door, and the sound might attract unwanted attention.

He would just have to stay out of sight as much as possible and take his chances.

* * *

"Who are you?"

Archer was waiting with a security team when the Romulan stumbled unsteadily out of the decontamination chamber into Sickbay. Phlox, ignoring the grim expressions on the faces of the others in the room, hurried forward to steady his latest patient and help him to a nearby biobed, already examining him with a hand scanner.

"Captain, please!" the Denobulan scolded. "This man is injured. Can't the questions wait until later?"

"No," Archer said in a hard voice, causing the doctor to stare at him. "This man claims Lieutenant Reed is alive, Doctor," he added by way of poor apology. Tucker, watching from the side, saw the Denobulan's eyes widen.

"I see."

"I am in no imminent danger, Doctor," the Romulan told Phlox shakily, in accented English. Tucker realized belatedly from the presence of the accent that the alien was not using a translator. Translators did not convey accent. The Romulan actually spoke English. "I am a physician myself."

"Then you ought to know how unwise it is to self-diagnose a head injury," Phlox responded promptly.

"Doctor, if you would." Archer was clearly displeased with being ignored. He addressed the Romulan again. "Who are you? What do you know of Malcolm Reed?"

"My name is S'Trep," the injured alien answered. He winced as Phlox gently probed the bruise on his cheekbone. "I am the First Medic of the Romulan Star Empire ship _Pritak_. I – was, rather. I hardly suppose that I could return to that position."

"And Malcolm?"

"He was brought on board my ship almost four weeks ago as a prisoner of the Empire. I don't know the circumstances of his arrival, but I believe he was sold to the Empire without his consent or foreknowledge by one of his superiors. He mentioned the name Harris."

Archer's face was very white and set. Tucker could not tell from looking at him whether anger or something else was foremost in the Captain's mind. Archer turned to the security team.

"Wait outside."

The men looked to Covan, reluctant to miss any news of their former superior. Archer glared at them until they hurried out, leaving only himself, Covan, Tucker, and T'Pol in Sickbay with the doctor and his patient.

"Do you know anything about this Harris?" Archer demanded when they had gone. S'Trep shook his head.

"No, Captain. I only heard his name spoken by Lieutenant Reed on one occasion. I'm afraid he was not able to tell me any more."

Not able, Tucker wondered, or not willing? He vastly preferred the latter explanation.

"What did the Empire want with Malcolm?"

S'Trep gave a sigh of relief as Phlox ran a dermal regenerator over the cut on his head. Although the regenerator did not instantly heal skin, Tucker knew from personal experience that it relieved pain quickly. "Information of some kind, although I don't know what that might have been. I was not in charge of his interrogation. I was to keep him alive until the information that the Empire wanted was extracted from him."

"Extracted how, exactly?" Tucker interjected, discomfited by the unspoken implication of torture.

The Romulan hesitated as if uncertain whether to reveal anything further. Archer looked like he wanted to attack the man, and S'Trep noticed the hostility. He responded with a wry, bitter grin.

"I suppose I have already betrayed my people," he sighed. "The Empire has a device known as a mind probe, which is used to extract information directly from the mind of a willing or unwilling victim. Malcolm was interrogated with this device, but for some reason it failed. I do not know why for certain. Yet despite repeated failures, the Captain of the ship would not give up his efforts."

"And what happened to Malcolm when this – probe, was used?" Archer asked. The Romulan winced.

"It is not a kind instrument, Captain. Lieutenant Reed suffered great psychological and neural trauma from the probe and…other interrogation measures, on the _Pritak_. I kept him alive, but he was not in good condition. I finally decided that I could not allow him to continue suffering in this way, so I helped him to escape. The Captain of the _Pritak_ owned a small private vessel which could be launched without alerting the bridge crew. I was able to steal this vessel and escape with it. It is the one in your shuttlebay now."

"Where is he now?"

"We were captured by the Orions," S'Trep said, sounding defeated. "I was separated from him. I managed to overpower my guard and escape by activating my shuttle's cloaking device, but I had no way to retrieve Malcolm."

"Yew just left him?" Tucker asked angrily.

"There was nothing else I could do!" the Romulan protested. "I thought perhaps I had a chance of finding help for him if I left, but there was nothing I could do for him otherwise. As you see by my presence here, I was correct."

It was a fair point. Tucker glowered suspiciously at the Romulan man. The whole story sounded a touch too convenient, too arranged. Although everything the Romulan had said could very well be true and Tucker could not detect any inconsistencies, he was not yet prepared to accept it fully. He had a feeling the Romulan was hiding details to cushion his own guilt in Reed's mistreatment.

"If you wish to get your officer back in any kind of condition, Captain, you must hurry," S'Trep said. "When I escaped, I was forced to take measures to temporarily repair some of the neural damage. I was able to modify the probe enough to use it to isolate his centres of both long- and short-term memory from all connection with other regions of his brain. He had become unstable and violent, constantly believing he was under interrogation. I had no choice but to temporarily block his access to the memories that were resurfacing. Unfortunately, it also means that he cannot remember anything of his former life until the block is removed or breaks down on its own."

Tucker swallowed hard against the rising bile in his throat. He tried not to think of Reed panicking, thinking he was being tortured. Unable to tell what was real and what was not. He heard Phlox's voice distantly.

"Why do you say we must hurry?"

"The block will not last very long. I do not know exactly how long, but when it breaks down he will revert to his former delusional state. The longer he is in that condition, the greater the risk that he will injure himself, and the lower the chance of repairing his neural network. I had hoped that you would have some means to safely remove the block and help restore the damaged areas."

The glance that Phlox exchanged with Archer told Tucker quite clearly that there was no such procedure. Archer did not remark on this, however.

"The first thing is to get him back. You said he is being held by the Orions?" At S'Trep's nod, Archer continued. "Where is he? Can you help us locate him?"

* * *

Archer called an emergency meeting of the senior staff, minus Phlox, who insisted upon staying in Sickbay to care for the wounded Romulan. On T'Pol's insistence, the security team had been left waiting outside Sickbay on Phlox's call, should they be needed. Although most of the senior staff had been present when S'Trep told his story, Archer related it briefly for the benefit of Sato and Mayweather. Both of the Ensigns were nearly wild to learn what had happened. Tucker suspected that the rest of the bridge crew was equally eager to hear news of Reed, but for now they would have to wait.

"The Romulan's name is S'Trep," Archer said. "He claims he was a doctor on board a Romulan Empire vessel where Malcolm was held and interrogated for several weeks. He says," Archer continued over the two Ensigns' shock, "that he helped Malcolm escape from the Romulan ship. They were captured by Orions, but S'Trep managed to escape."

"Why was Malcolm with the Romulans?" Sato asked. Her voice was high with shock.

"I don't know," Archer said. Tucker had to bite his tongue at the half-lie. "S'Trep said that he was sold to the Romulans."

"Sold!"

"I don't know," Archer repeated irritably. "All I know is what S'Trep told us."

_Which you're not telling all of._ Tucker wondered if Archer was intentionally leaving out important details, or if he was simply too overwhelmed to think clearly.

"Captain, do you believe S'Trep is speaking the truth?" T'Pol asked levelly.

"Maybe." Archer sighed. "I don't know what to think, T'Pol. What reason would he have to make up a story like that?"

"He may be a spy. The Romulan Star Empire is a dangerous enemy that we know little about. The encounters that Vulcans have had with this species shows them to be aggressive, unpredictable, and secretive."

"We've already met, T'Pol," Archer pointed out. "I'd say that description fits pretty well."

That had been a nightmarish day. Once or twice, Tucker had thought Archer might actually take the ship to warp with Malcolm pinned down to the outside of the hull.

"It doesn't matter," Tucker broke in impatiently. "We don't know if he's tellin' the truth. But how would he know about Malcolm if he was lyin'?"

"Another thing, Captain." Sato was still extremely pale, but looked determined. "He used a Starfleet frequency to broadcast a distress call. If it wasn't from – from Malcolm, I'd like to know where he got that."

Tucker shot Sato a silent thanks, grateful to have someone backing him up. Prior to the staff meeting he had not even considered the possibility that Archer might decide to do nothing. Now, it seemed that T'Pol at least was hell-bent on convincing him not to take action.

"Captain, I would advise you not to take the Romulan's word." Covan leaned forward earnestly. "The Romulans are a dangerous and deceptive species. It is likely that he may be leading you into a trap. My people have had many encounters with the Romulan species, and they have never dealt fairly with us."

"What the hell would they want from us?" Tucker demanded angrily, throwing his hands up in frustration. He glared across the table at Covan. Sato would forgive him; this was a legitimate reason to be angry with the Andorian. "Their technology is superior to ours. They've already had one chance at us, and they didn't even try anythin'. They just wanted us to clear off. What th' hell makes yew think they'd send a spy to trick us into some kinda trap? Why would they want t' trap us? I can't see any reason not to believe him."

That was a complete lie. Tucker could think of a myriad of reasons off the top of his head not to trust the Romulan, and if he considered more closely he could almost certainly find some cause the Romulans might have to lay an ambush for the Enterprise.

Covan flushed a darker shade of blue. Tucker could see him trying to stay calm. "Perhaps my word might be a good reason not to believe him, Commander. I assure you, he does not have our best interest in mind."

"And I don't think you have Malcolm's best interests in mind!" Tucker shot back hotly. "I don't think he's lyin', whatever yew say."

Covan's antennae flattened slowly back like the ears of an angry dog. "I did not say he was lying," he hissed. "Perhaps if you would take a moment to think, you would consider a reason that the Romulans might have an interest in your ship now that they did not have before. The last time you encountered them, they had not been interrogating one of your officers for weeks!"

Trip slammed a hand on the table in front of him. "Malcolm's not a traitor!"

The irony of his words made him falter. He was furious at Covan and did not believe the explanation, but neither did his words carry weight even in his own mind. Archer intervened.

"Gentlemen, that is enough! This is not a time to be fighting amongst yourselves! You are senior officers, please behave as such!"

Tucker and Covan both subsided into glaring silence.

"According to S'Trep, the interrogation methods used by the Romulans failed," T'Pol reminded. "However, I must agree with Lieutenant Covan."

They had reached a stalemate. Tucker sighed in exasperation. This argument could continue in circles for hours.

"Does it matter if he's lying?" Mayweather asked, breaking the tense silence. "Surely we can't do nothing. If there's even a chance that Malcolm is still alive, we can't just ignore it."

* * *

Archer paced restlessly about the empty ready room, trapped by his own responsibility. He'd ordered the senior staff out of the room to give himself space to think. Tucker and Covan's obvious hostility grated on his nerves. He couldn't concentrate with them glaring at each other across the table.

S'Trep's arrival and story had caught him completely off guard. In the first few days after Reed's disappearance, Archer had held out hope of finding some trace of him. But as time passed, this hope had gradually faded. He'd come to accept that he would never truly know what had become of his officer. But now, all that had changed. Not only did he have word of Reed, but apparently the man was within reach – if S'Trep was to be believed.

Therein lay the problem. Archer trusted the judgement of both his first officer and, to a lesser extent, his new tactical officer. However, there was logic in Sato's words and in Tucker's, too. How would the Romulan have come to possess a Starfleet frequency if he had never encountered Reed? Moreover, how could he have invented such a story if there was no truth in it? It was possible that S'Trep was lying. But Archer, for his part, was by no means convinced of that. The story he had told was simply too implausible to be a complete lie. And, in a gruesome kind of way, it did tally with what Archer already knew. A man named Harris…he ground his teeth until he realised what he was doing, then stopped. He was infuriated by the treachery that S'Trep had described, but at this point there was very little Harris could do that would surprise Archer. The man was utterly without scruples.

_So are you_, Archer's bruised conscience whispered back at him. _What has Harris done that is so horrible? Clone murder? What a terrible crime…_

But to sell an agent, against his will and without his knowledge, into the hands of a hostile species to torture at their pleasure…

He brushed the dark rage aside in favour of more practical considerations. He had a choice to make, which could not be better advised by dwelling upon the unspeakable actions of Reed's former associate.

Archer considered, very briefly, the idea of placing a call to Admiral Gardner. He discarded the idea on second thought. The Admiral would no doubt dismiss his story out of hand and possibly think him delusional. No, this decision was up to him. He had to take responsibility for it; he would be the one defending his actions later.

But was the choice really his? By voluntarily leaving, hadn't Reed chosen to forsake his allegiance to the Enterprise? He had forfeited the duty Archer owed him by leaving the Enterprise.

Always assuming that he _had_ left voluntarily.

Archer shook his head to clear it. This was absurd. Traitor or not, Reed had been his officer. It was his obligation to protect Reed if he was innocent, or to bring him to justice if he was not. Surely, even on a lead which could quite possibly be a trap, it was his duty to attempt to retrieve Reed if there were the slightest chance of doing so.

He tried to tell himself that the renewed anger at Reed's desertion had nothing to do with his desire to find the man, but in the privacy of his empty ready room he could not completely deny the truth.

It did not matter, Archer told himself, what exactly his motives were. This was the right thing to do.

* * *

At T'Pol's hail, Archer joined the Vulcan in Sickbay, where she and Covan had spent the better part of the past hour with S'Trep, working over a starchart.

Between S'Trep's translation of his ship's records over the past few days and T'Pol's understanding of Vulcan starcharts, they had located the planet on which the Orion ship had dropped its prisoners. Nearby, Tucker sat on the edge of a biobed. He'd joined them not so much because he could be of any help, as because he wanted to hear in person if S'Trep had any more information to divulge. He did not want to hear the Romulan's words filtered through the biased Andorian tactical officer.

"There's no reason to believe that Malcolm is still there," S'Trep cautioned the four senior officers, after T'Pol finished her brief summary of their calculations. "I suspect the Orions have taken him to a slave market, in which case it is likely that he has already been sold."

"It's a starting point," Archer said.

"It will take approximately four hours to reach these coordinates," T'Pol said. Tucker could tell that she had not warmed to the idea of pursuing S'Trep's lead. However, Archer's decision was final and no argument on her part was likely to alter his course of action now.

"Very well," Archer said with a nod. "Senior staff, I want you in my ready room. Only the people here now." He glanced around tiredly. "I'll have to make an crew announcement," he added as an afterthought, to himself.

Tucker didn't like Archer leaving Sato and Mayweather out of the staff meeting, but he kept his silence.

"Captain, may I have a word with you?" Phlox recalled Archer's attention as the others filed out of Sickbay.

"Can it wait?" Archer frowned, already halfway to the door through which his staff had already disappeared.

"I believe it may be relevant." Phlox's eyes flicked briefly but meaningfully toward the Romulan. "I suspect Medic S'Trep may have been exposed to a contagious pathogen during his stay on the Orion vessel. It may be best to keep him in…solitary confinement, until I can ascertain more about his condition."

"Will this be a problem? Do you need to inoculate us?"

"I do not believe we have cause for concern yet. He has displayed no symptoms so far. However, it is possible that he may become a danger."

It was an extremely strange turn of phrase, in context. Archer had the distinct impression that Phlox was trying to tell him something and wanted him to read between the lines. Unfortunately, he didn't have time for games. "Very well, Doctor. Do as you see fit."

"Captain –" Phlox started as he headed for the door, but Archer would not be delayed.

"I'll speak with you later, Phlox."

The door closed behind him. The Denobulan heaved a weary sigh at the impatience of humans in general.

A powerful grip seized his head from behind. Phlox gave a muted squawk of protest, but the hand over his mouth prevented him from being heard by the security team just outside the door.

"My mind to your mind," S'Trep hissed. "My thoughts to your thoughts."


	10. Chapter 10

From behind a stack of rotting crates piled up against one wall of the marketplace, Reed lay and watched.

It had been surprisingly easy to enter the building unnoticed. The Orions were far more concerned about keeping people in than out, and there were several unguarded doors behind the auction platforms. Reed had slipped carefully in and hidden himself behind the nearest concealment he could find. It was not a bad hiding place when he lay flat on his stomach. For the moment, he was forced to deal with the severe discomfort of having his burned side in contact with the concrete floor. The floor was probably swarming with countless bacteria, but infection would kill him less quickly than an Orion with a disruptor pistol.

The auctions appeared to be over for the day. Trade went on, but negotiations were conducted down among the lines of cages rather than on platforms. Reed looked around for the Denobulans and at length found them in a different cage than they had been in that morning. He was equal parts relieved and disappointed to see them – relieved that they had not been sold, but disappointed at their new location. The previous cage had not been far from the wall of the marketplace, but now they were almost in the center of the large building. With the place busy as it was for the entirety of the day and night, he would have no opportunity to reach them unobserved, and even if he did he would certainly not be able to use the disruptor to cut through the bars of the cage without anyone seeing. He needed a distraction of some kind.

The Romulan woman had not been moved. She was sitting upright and still, waiting for her fate. Her cage was marginally closer to the wall than the Denobulans'.

Reed studied the situation. He felt it would be best to wait until dusk at the very earliest, when the buyers of the day would be leaving but the activities of the night would not yet be in full swing to bring fresh crowds swarming amongst the cages. On the one hand, it would be easier to go unnoticed among a crowd; on the other hand, he was wearing the garments of a slave, had clearly just been in a fight, and would be attempting to break out several prisoners. Better for the place not to be too packed. The cover of darkness would also help once they made it outside – if they made it that far.

Breaking the Denobulans out was the most immediate problem, but it was far from the only one. After they were outside, where could they go? Reed wished he'd been able to gain a better idea of the layout of the surrounding roads. However, venturing back out would increase his risk of being spotted. In addition, there was always the possibility of Fenzin and Ayaila being sold while Reed was gone. He would have no idea where they were. If he stayed here to watch he would at least be able to follow if they were sold.

He would be able to follow one of them, he reminded himself. There was little question in his mind of which of the Denobulans he would stay with.

He required a distraction. Reed considered his disruptor pistol thoughtfully. If a shot or two was fired into the crowd from an unknown location, sufficient chaos might result to allow him a few minutes of cover. That had its own dangers, however. If his shots went wide he might kill one of the prisoners. Someone might notice the source of the shots. The disruptor might not have enough charge left to cut through heavy metal bars.

As he lay behind the decomposing crates, Reed became aware of several unforeseen difficulties. Now that he was lying still and was, for the moment, comparatively safe, he realized that he was absolutely exhausted. He did not know how he had gone without sleep, but it had to be well over twenty-four hours. He kept having to blink his eyes forcefully open as they drifted shut. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of rest.

Besides simple weariness, he was beginning to feel weak with hunger. He had not eaten since disembarking the Orion ship a day and a half previously, and he was feeling it. His mouth was parched. Unfortunately, any attempt to meet his physical needs would require him to move away from his hiding place.

He would survive. He had gone hungry and thirsty and without sleep for longer than this – probably. Without distinct memory of anything before S'Trep had woken him on the Romulan ship, Reed could not be sure. But the sensation of gnawing hunger and total exhaustion was not unfamiliar. He could put up with it.

The sickly-sweet scent of rotting wood around him was soporific. Reed dozed and woke with a start perhaps a dozen times, each time swearing not to allow himself to let down his guard again. It was no use. Despite his hunger and the throbbing pain in his side, the fatigue was overpowering.

He could not afford not to be alert. He had one available recourse to keep himself awake. Reed clenched his teeth to brace himself against the impending pain and scraped the heel of his hand firmly across his disruptor wound.

That woke him quite effectively.

* * *

"No. Absolutely not." For the first time that he could remember, Tucker was entirely in agreement with Covan, and he didn't even mind. "Cap'n, yer not goin' down there."

"It is too dangerous, Captain," Covan insisted. Archer's jaw set stubbornly and Tucker felt that Covan's words had been poorly chosen.

"Malcolm is _my_ officer," the Captain insisted. Tucker wondered in what context that was meant – did it imply protective feelings towards Reed, or a possessive claim over his person? The last five weeks had demonstrated, if nothing else, that Reed was not as much Archer's officer as anyone had thought.

"We're not gonna let you go," he said testily. "There's a price on yer head down there! Besides, someone's got to stay with the ship an' it might as well be you."

"And it might as well be someone else," Archer snapped. "I'm not staying behind for your peace of mind."

"Captain," T'Pol said quietly, "I cannot allow you to go on this away mission."

Archer turned a look of shocked betrayal on her. "T'Pol!"

"It is Starfleet protocol," T'Pol said with equanimity, "that in hostage situations involving a member of a starship's senior staff, the Captain will not participate in rescue attempts."

That sounded like absolute bullshit to Tucker. If there was such a regulation, he had never heard of it. Perhaps T'Pol had written it herself in the last few minutes. _Vulcans don't lie, my ass._ Moreover, Reed was certainly no longer a member of the Enterprise's senior staff, nor of her crew at all. However, Tucker was perfectly ready to jump on any reason for Archer to stay on the Enterprise during this particular away mission.

T'Pol, the engineer knew, was still highly suspicious of the Romulan's story. But although there were no records of a slave market in the vicinity that S'Trep believed, T'Pol had admitted that Orion establishments were poorly recorded and tended to shift locations quite frequently. She had thoroughly emphasized the fact that there was no particular reason to believe that the Romulan was speaking truthfully, but Archer had overruled her. Now, he seemed less ready to do so.

"T'Pol, you know very well that I've gone on hostage rescue missions before. And Malcolm isn't a senior officer on this ship anymore. We don't even know if he's down there, because we can't scan the damn planet! This is a reconnaissance mission."

Much to the frustration of all involved in the rescue efforts, the planet was equipped with sensor shielding. According to T'Pol, this was not an uncommon tactic of the Orions. Unfortunately, it meant that from orbit, they had no idea what was waiting below. They'd have to take a shuttle down and hope that S'Trep was to be trusted. Communications with the Enterprise would also be limited. From the shuttle itself they would have contact, but the signal from handheld devices was too weak to make it through the sensor shielding. Transporters wouldn't be an option either. Tucker didn't much like the idea of going down to an unknown place on a rescue mission with a great deal of their technology rendered useless, and he certainly didn't intend to let the Captain down there. T'Pol was in full agreement.

"I will go myself, Captain," the Vulcan said. "But I must insist that you remain on the Enterprise." A note of steel in her voice suggested that she would enforce her policy one way or another, regardless of the Captain's personal opinion. Archer glared fruitlessly at her for several seconds before subsiding.

"T'Pol, I don't think it's wise for you to go either," Covan pointed out. "Surely the Orions know that Vulcans are their sworn enemies? We'll only arouse their suspicions further if we have a Vulcan with us. Commander Tucker and I should lead the mission."

"Very well." Archer conceded at last. "Trip, you'll command the away mission. Covan, pick four people for a security team."

That was an arrangement Trip could live with.

* * *

A slight commotion by the door drew Reed's attention. It seemed that one of the guards objected to a particular customer entering and was trying to dissuade them from doing so. The customer, it seemed, was particularly persuasive, because after a short time the guard backed down and moved out of the way.

It was not one person but a party, which in itself was unusual. As far as Reed had observed, buyers typically came and went singly or in pairs. When occasionally customers came in a group it was nearly always a single buyer trailing a few of his own slaves or bodyguards behind him.

None of this group was subservient to the others: that much was immediately clear. There were six of them. Five of them were humans, dressed in a strange single-piece blue uniform with long sleeves and legs. Red stripes outlined the shoulders of the uniform. The last was an Andorian in the same uniform.

Reed watched them with great curiosity. Perhaps it was merely that five of them were of his own species, but he felt a strange affinity for the group. They did not seem to be customers. Two of the younger men kept glancing around with barely-concealed horror in their expressions and the Andorian's antennae were laid back against his skull, a sure sign of distress. The others demonstrated more control, but it was clear to Reed that they had not, upon entering, been prepared for the sights and sounds that met them. No, these were certainly not buyers.

Reed was struck with the powerful impression that these people would help him if only he had an opportunity to talk with them and explain the situation. He felt a strange urge to break his cover and make straight for them, trusting them to offer protection against the inevitable fury of the Orions. He frowned in consternation. That was simply absurd. He had only seen them for perhaps two minutes total, and at a distance. He had absolutely no way to judge who or what these people were. For all he knew they could be no different from the Orions.

Still, they did not have the look of slavers.

Reed adjusted himself carefully to get a better angle from which to view the strange party as they moved slowly among the cages. He hardly noticed the refreshed pain in his side as he moved. It had begun to bleed a bit from his repeated prodding to keep himself awake, but the cauterization from the disruptor bolt's heat had largely held. He squinted through the cracks in the dry, rotting wood.

The party was moving slowly and keeping close together. They looked around as they walked as if they were searching for something. A few of them held some kind of small handheld scanning device. Occasionally Reed lost sight of them between the cages. They were attracting a lot of attention, he saw with a thrill of anticipation. The market was gradually falling quiet. Ripples of hush in the buzz of business spread out from the epicenter of the disturbance. Many of the customers were migrating into a quickly-growing mass behind the strange little group. The buyers of the market had sensed the same thing Reed had: that these people were of a different stock. They were not slavers. They were from a society above slavery. They were a dangerous disruption to the filthy machinations of the market. They were a threat. The buyers were preparing to defend their own way of life.

* * *

Tucker sensed the tension in the air as soon as he stepped into the building.

That was not unexpected, given the reception they'd had from the Orion guard. The man had questioned them about their business and tried to refuse them entry, immediately suspicious. Perhaps they looked too respectable for such an establishment. He was glad that T'Pol had not accompanied the mission. Probably they would have been refused entry outright if there was a Vulcan with them.

He was not surprised by the disturbance they caused, but he had little time to dwell on it.

The building was, or had once been, a warehouse, about a quarter of a mile in length and half that in width. The walls were built mostly of wood, with concrete pillars here and there to support the ceiling, which was corrugated metal over wooden rafters. The floor was bare concrete. Against the far walls were several empty wooden platforms.

The main part of the floor was covered in row after row of barred metal cages, and inside the cages were the prisoners.

Tucker had known that this was a slave market. The knowledge had in no way prepared him for this sight. The prisoners were caged like animals, two or three in each cage and in some cases more. Many of them were naked. Most of them were bruised or bleeding. A number lay on the floor unmoving, and Tucker wondered if they were dead. At the commotion by the door, a few of the prisoners had looked up cautiously, but the majority seemed to barely notice their surroundings.

Much as Tucker wanted to find Reed, he did not want to find him_ here._

"Come on," he said softly to the others, and started carefully forward into the throng of staring buyers.

* * *

Reed could have laughed with relief and hope. He had spent hours studying what kind of a distraction he could create, and without his involvement at all a better distraction had come than he could ever have devised. When this situation erupted into violence – and by Reed's estimation it was more of a "when" than an "if" – he would have all the cover he needed.

The blond man in the lead had a troubled expression as he glanced around. Either he detected the menacing undercurrents of the gathering crowd, or, like his companions, he was disturbed by the sights around him. Reed thought it was foolish of anyone to be so surprised by the atrocity of the Orions and their customers.

As he looked around, the man's blue eyes flicked over the pile of rotting crates and for just a split second his gaze snagged on Reed's. Reed felt the breath go out of him. He_ knew_ that face, surely he had seen this man somewhere? In that fraction of time everything about this group seemed amazingly familiar: their uniforms, their manner, their faces…then the man's gaze moved on and Reed was left stunned by the intensity of the impression. The blond man had not noticed anything strange about the pile of crates.

Reed tried to provoke recognition again by looking at each face in turn, but the strange sensation did not return. He bit his lip in frustration before scolding himself for his wandering attention. It mattered not at all who these people were beyond the question of whether they would provide him with the opportunity he needed.

One of the Orion auctioneers approached the group. He towered over all of them, his disruptor pistol prominent on his hip. The blond man spoke briefly to him. Reed could not make out what they said, but whatever it was had several of the slavers fingering their weapons. The Orion grew visibly angry. The blond man did not back down.

Reed could not say who made the first threatening move: one moment the atmosphere was tense but controlled, and the next moment both sides were bristling with weapons in each other's faces. Very slowly Reed brought his knees up beneath him, preparing to sprint from his hiding spot.

"Alright, take it easy!" the blond man was shouting. "We're gettin' outta here. No need for all this!" The little group started backing slowly out, weapons raised, through the crowd around them.

* * *

The customers parted to let Tucker and his companions through. Crewman Alex and Covan had pulled out hand scanners. Tucker tried to look around at the prisoners without letting himself think about what he was seeing. He was looking for one face, and one face only.

"I haven't got much range," Covan murmured to Tucker. "There's a dampening field of some kind in here."

_Shit._ "Got it." This wouldn't be fast. They would need time to search. Unfortunately, time was the one thing they didn't have. Tucker glanced around the edges of the building to locate any other available exits. He didn't like how far the nearest doors were.

An enormous green-skinned Orion man came forward to block their way. He was very obviously armed with a disruptor on one side of his belt and a knife on the other.

"Are you buying or selling?"

Sato's calibration of the portable universal translators, using the Vulcan database's information on the Orion language, seemed to function flawlessly. "Neither," Tucker said warily, knowing that was the wrong answer but reluctant to commit to "buying" when he did not know if Reed was here. He wanted to buy every wretched prisoner in the entire complex, but that was impossible. "We're looking for someone. A human."

The Orion crossed his arms over his chest. "We don't deal in humans. We don't deal with them, either."

"I'd like to take a look around, if you don't mind."

The Orion glared down at him. Tucker sensed motion in the crowd around him. Several of the slavers had dropped their hands to their weapons.

"This isn't a real estate showing," the Orion rumbled. "If you're not buying or selling, you're not staying."

"We'll leave as soon as we've searched," Tucker said firmly.

"You'll leave now."

Someone breathed too loudly, or twitched, or looked the wrong way at someone else, and in half a second a circle of weapons surrounded them. Tucker felt Covan and the rest of the team draw their phase pistols in response.

"Let's go," Covan said quietly. "We can't force this."

Tucker seethed inwardly, but he understood the Andorian's point. They could not search for Reed while fighting dozens of armed aliens. Much as he wanted to try, it was too much risk.

"Alright, take it easy," he said to the Orion, raising his voice to force the attention of the surrounding crowd onto him. "We're gettin' outta here. No need for all this!"

* * *

They got about three metres before someone fired.

The marketplace exploded into a cacophony of screaming and weapons fire. Reed sprang up and made to dart out from his hiding spot. Dehydrated, hungry, and stiff from lying still for so long, it took him several steps to get his balance. He ran as fast as his injured side would allow into the rows of slave cages. Most of the slaves were cowering on the ground in fear of stray shots from the energy weapons. Few of them even noticed Reed passing as he took the fastest open path to the Denobulans' cage. Ayaila was flat on her stomach with Fenzin beside her. The older Denobulan had placed himself between his niece and the ongoing fight, covering her as much as he could.

Reed knelt by the cage and pressed the muzzle of his disruptor against one of the bars. The first shot sent tremors through the cage and weakened the metal, which nonetheless resisted Reed's efforts to snap it off. He fired again and the bar gave way at his next heave. He lifted the muzzle of the disruptor a few feet and fired at the bar again, higher up. This time a single shot was enough for him to bend the bar out of the way.

"Fire!" a voice screamed above the sounds of shouting and weapons fire. _"Fire!"_ Reed looked up to see the pile of crates he had hid behind going up in flames. He knew immediately what had happened. A stray disruptor blast must have struck the pile. The wood, dry and rotting with age, was perfect tinder.

The wall against which the crates leaned was wooden. The fire licked hungrily at the side of the building. The prisoners nearest the blaze were panicking, tearing futilely at the bars of their cages. Their fear was infectious to both the other prisoners and to the slavers.

"Malcolm!" Reed glanced down to see Fenzin staring up at him in blank astonishment. "Malcolm, what are you doing here?"

"Shut up," Reed growled. He fired into the next bar twice, ignoring Fenzin's violent flinch. A third shot allowed him to twist it aside. One more should be enough room to get them out; certainly for Ayaila, probably for Fenzin too. Smoke stung Reed's eyes. He could feel the heat from across the room. Someone stumbled over him unexpectedly and Reed cried out in agony as he fell heavily onto his injured side. He hauled himself upright, prepared to fight, but whoever it was had already fled. Reed broke through the final bar and reached into the cage.

"Fenzin, give her to me –"

"Malcolm, you're injured!" Fenzin exclaimed in shocked concern. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"Shut up, come on!" Reed shouted at him. "You're going to die if you don't! Give me Ayaila!"

"Come on, honey," Fenzin coaxed the frightened girl. "Go with Malcolm. Come on." He pulled her up gently and led her to the opening in the side of the cage. Malcolm grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her through. Ayaila gasped as her skin scraped against the rough edges of the severed metal, still hot from disruptor fire, but she did not cry.

"Keep her safe," Fenzin pleaded. "Please, you must take care of her."

"Goddammit, you're coming with me." It would be a tight squeeze, but Reed thought he could get Fenzin out. "Come here."

"I don't know," Fenzin faltered. "I don't think I can get out, Malcolm."

The heat was rising. Reed looked up to see the fire licking at the rafters of the ceiling. The smoke was thick; he could no longer see what had become of the fight. The brightness and roar of the fire overpowered any sight or sound of energy weapons.

"This whole place is going up!" Reed screamed at him. "You're going to die!" Behind him, Ayaila had begun to cough from the smoke. Reed was acutely aware of the increasing toxicity of the heavy air.

"I don't know," Fenzin said again, but he came forward to the opening and cautiously slid his shoulders into it. Reed seized him under the arms and heaved. It was indeed a close fit. Fenzin squealed in pain as the jagged metal cut into him. He flopped awkwardly onto the floor and staggered upright, clutching at a deep and bloody cut on his leg. Ayaila attached herself to his arm.

"Come on!" Reed took Fenzin by the wrist and started towards the nearest door away from the fire.

Something compelled him to look back.

The Romulan woman of the previous day stood against the bars of her cage, staring back at him. She was at the very edge of the fire's spreading range, but though the heat must have been tremendous, she did not look afraid.

"Go!" Reed shouted in Fenzin's ear, pointing to the door and hoping that the Denobulan's wayward survival instincts would do the rest. He took off for the Romulan's cage. In the hazy smoke that was by now almost blinding, he stumbled heavily over something soft. It was a body. As Reed pushed himself back up, something sharp pricked his hand. The dead alien's knife slid out of its sheath and he snatched it up.

Heat and smoke tore at Reed's face as he reached the cage. Flames were already licking at the back of it, a scarce ten feet away. He felt for the bars and fired indiscriminately at them. With Vulcan-like strength, the Romulan wrenched the first bar entirely off before Reed had even finished. The moment the second came free, she launched herself powerfully at the opening, twisting her body sideways to give herself as much space as possible. Reed took her hands and dragged her through when the jagged ends of the bars caught on her sides. They ran.

Prisoners cried out for help as Reed and the Romulan passed. Hands brushed at his clothes through the bars of the cages. When they were out of the immediate range of the flames Reed hesitated, torn between making good the escape and trying to free others. It was the Romulan's turn to drag him along by the wrist. Reed followed, trying to shut his mind to the despairing wails behind him.

A high-pitched, childish scream rang out from the smoke ahead. Reed heard Fenzin's voice: he was pleading. As they drew near, Reed saw the hulking form of an Orion standing over the fallen Denobulan man, holding Ayaila by one arm. It was the very same Orion that he had driven away from the Denobulans only the previous night.

Reed felt someone snatch at his hand. The Romulan woman sprang past him and charged straight into the Orion guard, burying her hands into its stomach. The guard dropped Ayaila and staggered. It clutched at its stomach as the Romulan backed away. Reed did not understand until he saw the knife in her hands.

* * *

Choking on the smoke, Tucker stumbled out of the marketplace and into cleaner air outside. He looked around wildly for the rest of the security team, but in the panicked crowd it was difficult to make out faces. Crewman Foster stumbled out of the packed mass, followed a moment later by two other members of the security team.

"Where's Covan and Alex?" Tucker shouted over the chaos, but no answer was forthcoming. He turned back toward the burning building. The crowd had begun to thin around the door, with most of the slavers already evacuated to a safe distance.

Through the haze of smoke and sparks against the orange glow, Tucker saw a blue-clad figure stagger out of the door, weighed down by the burden of another body on its back. He sprinted forward into the heat. Covan, his ash-blackened face streaked with blue where sweat had cleaned it, carried Alex across his back in a modified fireman's carry. Tucker helped lift the limp body off the Andorian. He slung one of Alex's arms across his shoulders. Covan took the other.

"What happened?" Tucker had to yell to be heard over the roar of the fire as they ran back toward the other members of the security detail.

"Shot – I think," Covan gasped. Tucker noticed that he had one arm wrapped awkwardly around the injured human so that his hand was pressed against Alex's chest. Dark fluid oozed between the Andorian's blue fingers.

Between them, Tucker and Covan supported the unconscious human back towards the waiting shuttlepod as two of the security team rushed to help them. Foster ran ahead to the shuttlepod.

They had set down on a wide slab of concrete slightly more than an eighth of a mile from the front entrance of the marketplace. It had seemed a short distance on the inbound journey. Now, it seemed an interminable length. Tucker was acutely aware of the blood bubbling out from under Covan's hand.

Foster had the shuttlepod door open and was waiting with first aid supplies when they reached the pod. Alex was lifted onto the deck of the craft, where Foster and one of the others began slicing his uniform off while the fourth member of the team applied pressure to the wound in Alex's chest. Exhausted, Covan stumbled against the side of the shuttle. His antennae sagged limply to either side. Tucker hauled him upright and helped him into the craft, slamming the door behind them. He pushed the Andorian down into the copilot's seat and began the shuttle's launch sequence.

"I need a copilot!" he called over the shouts of the others in the back as they fought to stop Alex bleeding out. Covan, however, was distracted by something entirely different.

"Commander!" The blue streaks on the Andorian's face looked pale as he held up his hand scanner. It took Tucker long seconds to understand what Covan was trying to tell him.

On the screen of the hand scanner, a biosign registered: one human life sign. Proximity 0.3 miles.

Tucker froze, torn in an impossible quandary. Reed was here, on this planet, not even half a mile away. He felt sure the biosign could be no one but Reed. Meanwhile, in the back of the craft, three men battled for the life of another crewman. Time was precious, and every second that they were not on the Enterprise brought Alex a second closer to death. It was an impossible choice. Tucker turned helplessly toward Covan and found the Andorian waiting on his orders.

"Dammit!" Tucker swore, punching in the last of the launch sequence with shaking hands. "Hail the Enterprise. Tell them we're coming in with wounded."

Somewhere back in that building, Reed was trapped in a cage, waiting to be burned to death. Waiting for the whole damn place to come down around him. Beside him, Tucker could hear Covan calling in to the Enterprise, his voice unsteady with either weariness or shock. Almost blinded with frustration and grief, Tucker wrenched back on the throttle, lifting the shuttle off the ground and turning it upward toward the safety of the ship waiting far above.

* * *

Reed lifted Ayaila from the concrete floor and slung her over his back. He couldn't be sure if she was injured or simply dazed, but there was not time to worry about that. He could hardly breathe from the smoke. The Romulan pulled Fenzin to his feet.

They left the mortally injured Orion and fled the burning building. Most of it was already engulfed in flames and as they reached the door the further portion of the roof collapsed, sending a spray of sparks, ash, and scalding air into their backs. Reed almost stumbled, but kept his footing with difficulty.

They did not stop running until the air around them was cool and sweet with the absence of smoke. Half a mile behind them, the slave market was a bright torch against the nearly darkened sky. _You could see that from space,_ Reed thought, and followed the absent idea no further. He led them off the main street and stopped behind a building. Fenzin hurried forward with a cry of dismay to take Ayaila in his arms.

Reed's knees buckled and he fell hard on all fours, gasping for breath around the biting burn of his injured side. The disruptor clattered away from him and although a small part of his mind clamored at him for carelessness and told him to retrieve it, his body rebelled. Now that they were safe he did not know how he had made it this far. With a groan he lowered himself onto the cool pavement with shaking arms. He could go no further.

Through glazed eyes he could see the Romulan bending over Ayaila while Fenzin hovered nearby. After a moment, the Romulan gently raised the girl into a sitting position. Reed saw the Denobulan child reach out for her uncle. He was too tired to smile, but relief washed gently over him. His efforts had not been in vain.

The bright ball of a disruptor bolt hit the Romulan squarely in the back as she straightened. She fell forward with a grunt onto the concrete as Fenzin gasped. All awareness of exhaustion and pain gone, Reed flipped over onto his back just as the metal implant on his neck shot a paralyzing blast of electricity through his body. Every muscle seized. Reed's vision blurred and returned only after a second's blackness.

From the other side of a disruptor pistol pointed directly at Reed's chest, Entek looked down at him with an expression of pure hatred.


End file.
